Training my head is bloody, but unbowed
Roana
Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 6 Abandoned, Level 2 Attuned - Strg: 20 - Dext: 20 - Endr: 22 - Luck: 16
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 764
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#1
legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
Generals were meant to be ruthless. Generals were precise. Generals held skills of tacticians, of Machiavellian masterminds, of strength, durability, and fortitude. He’d know – the warrior was once all of those things, scaling great heights across expansive battlefields, laying waste to enemies, bartering time for allies, wrecking and demolishing and upholding a creed of condemnation, consignments to oblivion.

It came full circle now, honed right back into his blood. Except now there was no army – he and Loren didn’t constitute anything more than minutemen – fervent to join an ensuing fight. But it mattered little, in the scheme of things. With the blight, with impending Long Night, there was no time to dwell in the ridiculous ventures of their lackluster defenses. It meant he had to become better. Stronger. Mightier. Better than before; scorching, obliterating, a massive, barbaric foe for anyone who dared to cross him or those he considered family.

He'd spent a greater part of the day making armor for himself, for Zuriel, and a few others in mind, and left the metal to sit in the winter’s sun for a few moments while he swung a new blade, intending to balance its weight, ponder over how to meld it into a brighter conviction. On a whim, he stoked its fibers into one of the targets nearby, listened to the resplendence in its vitriol, in its fervency, in its calculated efforts, tilting it from side to side in his calloused palms, testing it from both hands. The shape was clean, good, no chink in its steel, forged iron and irreverence in its adornments, plain this time, no airs, no mercurial ornaments, a satisfactory pulse to the air after a third iteration and movement. It would serve someone well. But would it amount to anything during Long Night – or was it useless, infallible, when monsters haunted and loomed?
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
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Roana Steadman
Soldier ☆ Monster Hunters Guild
Age: 27 | Height: 5'8" | Race: Accepted | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 6 - Strg: 24 - Dext: 26 - Endr: 22 - Luck: 11
Played by: Grant Offline
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Posts: 719
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#2
All is fair in love and war
bloodshed in velvet shades
as battles burn, but one remains
they call her Queen of Blades
Roana had been wandering. She had made absolutely zero effort to join the forming army when she had heard call for one. Not when Zariah made it, nor when Wessex did. She had other orders from a higher power to follow now, and the politics of mortals would only serve to muddle her cause. But since she had promised to wait as long as she could to carry out these orders, she felt a bit at a standstill. Perhaps she ought pay the baker a visit to see if she had made any progress with Mort.

But as she made her way there, she caught a familiar sight. A sword, swinging through the air, armor glinting in the sunlight. She herself wore no armor, though her claymore adorned her hip. Like the blade the Reaper swung, it was simple, though the high shine of its enchanted blade and dragon guard made it stand out as something special. For a moment she watched from afar, taking in his movement and observing the field before him. "This is quite the set up you have here." she said at some length, stepping forward.
ROANA
This table brought to you with considerable help from Sky and Odd!
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Deimos Ignatius
the Resurrected Sword
General of the Hollowed Grounds ☆ Artisan's Guild
Age: 26 | Height: 6'4" | Race: Abandoned | Nationality: Outlander
Level: 6 Abandoned, Level 2 Attuned - Strg: 20 - Dext: 20 - Endr: 22 - Luck: 16
ZURIEL - Mythical - Unicorn (Healing)
Played by: Heather Offline
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Posts: 764
MP:
#3
legends are slippery little things. for the glory that coats them
hides the pain, suffering
The blade bade its master, slicing through the air with might, with grit, with tenacity, and his muscles rippled, undulated through movements and motions with familiar, habitual obstinance; days of battlefield longing, when they were stripped down to the core of humanity, when only survival bit into their minds, consumed, held them aloft and upright until blow upon blow matched their vitriol and vehemence. He switched hands simply to exercise the other, capable of rampaging with both, sliding its weight along the ether with matched parallels, and there was some distant haze in his sedition, in his decadence, in his unsung, unholy splendor, of yesteryear’s seasons when he knew exactly what the world was made of (sinners and thieves and monsters and soldiers; except now there was just more than greed and glory to consider).

An individual maneuvered into his peripheral vision, and he swung around as if still in battle, a poised beast, capable of serving no god but the notions of the reaper and his scythe; only registering the stranger as familiar a moment later, and the compliment accompanying her. “Roana,” he nodded, indicating she could step forward, sheathing the sword along his belt and gazing along, across, the expanse she seemed either intrigued, inspired, or curious of. He shrugged – eyes flicking over the field with its targets, with its armor gleaming on top of readied woodpiles, with the unicorn grazing nearby, her watchful eye instantly coiled upon the woman-soldier. “Thank you.” It was nothing compared to Ronin’s training grounds at the Monster Hunter’s guild, but adequate for his current needs. His gaze swept back to her, an arch to his brow, speaking to her as he would any other warrior - their machinations and inclinations likely similar stances, war-drum slashes and depravities that came with necessary tactics. “What brings you here?”
and death that spun them
DEIMOS
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