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Necrophage

Necrophage's Avatar
Name: John Grey
Sex: Male
Age: 20-something
Hair: Auburn, pulled back in a tight ponytail at the base of his skull that reaches his waist.

Physical description:
Tall and lean, not particularly strong. Usually wearing a black leather trench coat, black hoody, blue jeans, and sometimes a gas mask when the situation calls for it (which is pretty much anytime things get exciting.) The nature of his talents leaves him with a physically chilling aura, afterall the heat has to come from somewhere, and it comes from him and the air around him.
He's a whole lot more scruffy than regular Illuminati, and utterly lacks their suave personal skills or any air of sophistication. If seen on the street, at best you'd think he's a regular, albeit cold, person, or at worst a crazy homeless man.

Interesting Mundane Skills:
Handy with a semi-automatic shotgun
Functional with a sniper rifle
Surprisingly stealthy, able to move and even run in near silence, and avoid notice in the shadows

Interesting Supernatural Skills:
The ability to make things explode in fantastic and creative ways using pyromancy.


Common Tactics:

John Grey does not have the most diverse skill set, mainly being combat oriented. His motto is 'there is no problem that can not be solved with the proper application of arson.' He is naturally gifted with potent eldritch fire, it is however very difficult to control, and not even slightly precise. He prefers to hurl explosive balls of flame at enemies from a distance, where the blast wont quite reach him. At medium range he is capable of projecting waves of fire away from him, but the potential for back draft tends to make this risky. As such, when things are too up close to 'safely' use his fire, he falls back to a reliable combat shotgun.

If the situation requires for a precise, single target kill, or cant draw a lot of attention, he'll use a sniper rifle, and kill only his target from a very long range, before slipping away in the ensuing chaos.

He will always prefer to strike from ambush after scouting everything he can, learning as much information about the situation.

Misc:
Despite his rather... aggressive talents, he is as much a scholar as he is a killer. He possesses a vast knowledge of the arcane and secret, as well as less obscure things. He's just as at home in a quiet, dusty library as he is in the smouldering ashes of a battlefield.

Bio:
When his arcane powers manifested themselves in a big way, John was forced to go on the run, fleeing arson investigators. He had always felt he was watched by something *other*, and when late one night the shadows began to move towards him, whispering madness in his mind, he glimpsed something that changed him forever. The truths he learned fractured his mind, but also awakened his latent potential. In his fear and anger he lashed out at the shadows, and set them ablaze. The fires burned out quickly, but in the ashes he found bones that most certainly did not belong to humans. Unfortunately, more shadows came, and the inferno roared in his ears, his vision giving way to red. As the world burned around him, he was lost in euphoria, willfully subsuming himself to the flames of madness. Until they sputtered and died, and he found himself standing amid the burned out ruins of a building. He quickly regained his senses and realised the shadows were coming again. Having no more than a mere spark of fire in him he ran. And kept running.

He would run and hide and wait until he burned once more. Then he would lash out at the shadows and the things they hid until he was forced to flee again. Eventually, he found himself in New York, and noticed to his surprise, the shadows did not pursue him so doggedly here. It wasnt long until he discovered the secret world of the arcane and occult. It also wasnt long until he was contacted by the Illuminati. They welcomed him into the fold, teaching him about power and control, turning him into a powerful tool of destruction. They learned that not only was he a valuable soldier (with the proper handlers), he was also a gifted scholar with a keen mind for tactics as well as the more esoteric. He found his place amongst their ranks, researching, learning, discovering anciet rituals and mystic teachings, until he would be called away to provide (heavy) fire support for teams going up against unruly, unnatural things that stood between the Illuminati and their goals.

Razzie

Razzie's Avatar
So liek...heavn bugged me about it so I posted it here.

*Note* I like to write stories. Sorry for the length as it does span more than 1 post but writing is my thing! ^-^ If you read the entire thing, I promise you will not be disappointed.


Name: Raziel (Razzie) Beredle
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Height: 6' 2"
Weight: 187.3 lbs.
Body Type: Athletic
Race/Ethnicity: African-American
Faction: The Templars
Family: His brothers and sisters within The Templars.
Hair: Usually a high & tight fade (0->3 up the head to the top).
Accessories: 1) Black aviators with small Templar symbols on the sides. 2) Matching black leather gloves with Templar symbols as buttons at the wrists. 3) Small gold chain around his neck with a Templar cross at the end under his clothes. 4) Large Attaché briefcase holding all his weapons, gadgets, and weapon modifications so he can change weapon types in the middle of the fight. 5) He has a picture of his late sister Mikora in his left chest pocket in his suit and kisses it each time he goes out to extinguish evil.
Clothes: He wears a full white/grey suit with small red vertical stripes, a red collar shirt with a black overshirt and a white tie with thick diagonal red stripes. All the buttons in his suit have small Templar symbols as buttons. Over top his suit is a long black leather trench coat with a large Templar symbol at the upper portion of the back.
Shoes: He wears shined black Oxford dress shoes with altered insoles for comfort and altered outersoles for traction and mobility.
Weapons: 1) A collapsible modified version of the G36/AUG-A3 in mid-range situations with optional modifications ie. silenced for quiet ops, extended magazines for firefights, night scopes for night ops etc. (All modifications are carried in his Attaché case). 2) For closer range, he uses twin Desert Eagle pistols with explosive tipped .50 cal rounds which are kept in his coat inside specially designed holsters for maximum drawing efficiency. 3) In special long range cases, a silenced Barret .50 cal rifle for long range heavy stopping power and fire support which is kept dissasembled in several pieces in a second section in the above mentioned Attaché case. 4) In the extremely rare case that it comes to having to resort to melee fighting, he has a specially designed katana which is hidden in his trench coat inside a sheath at his back which can be reached without any hesitation or problems. It is made out of a special super-light, super-dense, alloy which becomes sharper the more it is used.
Skills/Attributes: He always had an interest in lightning. His sister and him would watch thunder storms for a glimpse of lightning. Out of her honor and his personal interest, he has become very masterful in the art of lightning manipulation and can control it in any way he sees fit.
Personality: He prefers to be alone when on the battlefield or anywhere a battle can be held. Once in a peacful safe enviroment, he opens up and is a very kind, fun-loving, happy-go-lucky person always looking out for others. If forced to be on the battlefield with others, he is usually very easily irritated if anyone should compromise his safety or their own; although in a moments notice, he will jump to their aid if need be.
Likes: Killing demons, drinking wine, making jokes, most kinds of music (classical mostly), and protecting the ones he cares for.
Dislikes: People who are careless and can get themselves or others killed.
Motto: "Pain is only weakness leaving the body..."
Backstory/Origin:
Before The Mist...

Before the Mist, Raziel was a normal black kid in Orlando, Florida.

He had a mom, a dad, and a little sister. He went to a normal middle school and had normal friends and normal middle school kid problems. He had a normal life. A normal boring life.

Sometimes, he thought to himself, Why does life have to be so boring? I wish something interesting would happen. What if something weird happened like in one of the super hero movies? It would be so cool if I could control lightning or run super fast or fly! ...I wonder what it takes to get a radioactive spider to bite you.... Or better yet, I would much rather be The Human Torch!

He would daydream all day in class about super heroes and valient crusades against evil villains...but in the end...it was purely that. Daydreams.

One uneventful day, he was walking home from school with his little sister Mikora.

"Hey," said Mikora excitedly, "guess what Raz!"
"What?" Raziel replied dully, rolling his eyes.
"Tomorrow is my birthday!" she said loudly jumping up and down on the sidewalk.
"Really now?"
"Yup!"
"And how old will you be?"
"I'm gonna' be 9!"
"At 4:13 p.m.. Make sure you remember that."
"But I don't wanna'!" Mikora complained.
Raziel only laughed.
Later

"Mom," Raziel said in the middle of dinner, "there is a convention at-"
"No," Raziel's mother said fiercely, "you go nowhere until you bring up your grades!"
"But mom!"
"Boy, did you hear your mother?! She said no," said Raziel's father.
Raziel lowered his head and continued eating in defeat.

After dinner, Raziel sat in his bed and daydreamed about a world like the cartoons he watched every Saturday morning. Soon enough, he had daydreamed himself to sleep.

After School The Next Day

After picking up his sister from her elementary school, the two began their walk home.

Skipping in her little plastic tiara with a single "Happy Birthday" balloon, Mikora sang Happy Birthday to herself.

"Slow down Mickie. You're going to far ahead of me," Raziel said briefly shaken from his daydream by sirens in the distance.
"Okay," she said waiting for him to catch up.
"Hey, when we get home I want you to tell mom that I have to go back to the school for extra practice."
"Why are you going back?"
"I'm not. I'm going to Rodricks house to play video games. But you can't tell mom okay?" Raziel said holding a finger in front of his lips. "Promise me you won't tell."
"I promise," she replied beaming at him.
"Good."

On the walk home, Raziel noticed more sirens in the distance. Why are there so many sirens...I don't see a fire, Raziel thought while scanning the skyline for smoke. Eventually when he couldn't spot any black plumes, he just shrugged it off and went off to his daydreams.

When they got home, Raziel instantly started noticing odd things here and there. Their mother wasn't home was the first thing he noticed.

"Where is mommy Raz?" Mikora asked.
"I don't know. She probably went to the store late today," he said trying not to seem worried even though he knows that his mother always goes to the store in the mornings in order to stay out of traffic.

"Come on. Let's go in." Raziel fished the spare key from under the front mat and went inside.

3:53 p.m.

Raziel awoke to his little sister screaming. He jumped out of his bed and stood, listening for the faintest sound. The house was dead quiet.

After a few seconds of silence he called out his sisters name, "Mickie?"

He ran downstairs and scanned the house for his little sister. To his horror, he did not find his sister, but his father, covered in blood outside the front door in the driveway. He was kneeling over someone in a dress.

Dazed from the initial shock of seeing his father in such a state, it took him a few moments before he realized that the dress was his mothers.

"Mom!" he screamed as he ran out the door to meet with his father and mother, barely dodging his Mikora who was running inside the house.

He stopped a few feet away from his father and almost threw up. Her stomach was torn open and her entrails were spilled.

Barely holding back vomit, though not holding back tears, he spoke to his father, "Dad...what's going on? What's wrong with mom?"

His father did not reply.

"Dad!" he said more forcefully.

No response.

"DAD!" he said walking up and grabbing his father's shoulder.

His father spun around, holding his wives heart between his teeth. His eyes were no longer the warm shade of brown Raziel was used to but a distorted blind grey with blood in the pupil and spotted in the iris. His shirt was soaked with blood and giblits of things that were supposed to be inside Raziel's mother.

"Dad! What are you doing?!" Raziel screamed.

His father stared at him and after a moment, dropped the still-beating heart from his mouth and bellowed at Raziel like a hell-fire demonic harpie. He got up and stared at Raziel lustfully, hungrily even.

"Dad...what's wrong with you?"

Raziel's father jumped at his son with his hateful blood-stained eyes, grabbing him and staring into what Raziel felt was his soul.

Out of panic, Raziel struggled and kicked and hit. His fathers grip was too strong but luckily enough, he still had every males natural physical weakness. After kicking his father in the groin as hard as he could, Raziel shook free from his fathers grip and ran inside the house with his sister.

Razzie

Razzie's Avatar
So liek...heavn bugged me about it so I posted it here.

*Note* I like to write stories. Sorry for the length as it does span more than 1 post but writing is my thing! ^-^ If you read the entire thing, I promise you will not be disappointed.


Name: Raziel (Razzie) Beredle
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Height: 6' 2"
Weight: 187.3 lbs.
Body Type: Athletic
Race/Ethnicity: African-American
Faction: The Templars
Family: His brothers and sisters within The Templars.
Hair: Usually a high & tight fade (0->3 up the head to the top).
Accessories: 1) Black aviators with small Templar symbols on the sides. 2) Matching black leather gloves with Templar symbols as buttons at the wrists. 3) Small gold chain around his neck with a Templar cross at the end under his clothes. 4) Large Attaché briefcase holding all his weapons, gadgets, and weapon modifications so he can change weapon types in the middle of the fight. 5) He has a picture of his late sister Mikora in his left chest pocket in his suit and kisses it each time he goes out to extinguish evil.
Clothes: He wears a full white/grey suit with small red vertical stripes, a red collar shirt with a black overshirt and a white tie with thick diagonal red stripes. All the buttons in his suit have small Templar symbols as buttons. Over top his suit is a long black leather trench coat with a large Templar symbol at the upper portion of the back.
Shoes: He wears shined black Oxford dress shoes with altered insoles for comfort and altered outersoles for traction and mobility.
Weapons: 1) A collapsible modified version of the G36/AUG-A3 in mid-range situations with optional modifications ie. silenced for quiet ops, extended magazines for firefights, night scopes for night ops etc. (All modifications are carried in his Attaché case). 2) For closer range, he uses twin Desert Eagle pistols with explosive tipped .50 cal rounds which are kept in his coat inside specially designed holsters for maximum drawing efficiency. 3) In special long range cases, a silenced Barret .50 cal rifle for long range heavy stopping power and fire support which is kept dissasembled in several pieces in a second section in the above mentioned Attaché case. 4) In the extremely rare case that it comes to having to resort to melee fighting, he has a specially designed katana which is hidden in his trench coat inside a sheath at his back which can be reached without any hesitation or problems. It is made out of a special super-light, super-dense, alloy which becomes sharper the more it is used.
Skills/Attributes: He always had an interest in lightning. His sister and him would watch thunder storms for a glimpse of lightning. Out of her honor and his personal interest, he has become very masterful in the art of lightning manipulation and can control it in any way he sees fit.
Personality: He prefers to be alone when on the battlefield or anywhere a battle can be held. Once in a peacful safe enviroment, he opens up and is a very kind, fun-loving, happy-go-lucky person always looking out for others. If forced to be on the battlefield with others, he is usually very easily irritated if anyone should compromise his safety or their own; although in a moments notice, he will jump to their aid if need be.
Likes: Killing demons, drinking wine, making jokes, most kinds of music (classical mostly), and protecting the ones he cares for.
Dislikes: People who are careless and can get themselves or others killed.
Motto: "Pain is only weakness leaving the body..."
Backstory/Origin:
Before The Mist...

Before the Mist, Raziel was a normal black kid in Orlando, Florida.

He had a mom, a dad, and a little sister. He went to a normal middle school and had normal friends and normal middle school kid problems. He had a normal life. A normal boring life.

Sometimes, he thought to himself, Why does life have to be so boring? I wish something interesting would happen. What if something weird happened like in one of the super hero movies? It would be so cool if I could control lightning or run super fast or fly! ...I wonder what it takes to get a radioactive spider to bite you.... Or better yet, I would much rather be The Human Torch!

He would daydream all day in class about super heroes and valient crusades against evil villains...but in the end...it was purely that. Daydreams.

One uneventful day, he was walking home from school with his little sister Mikora.

"Hey," said Mikora excitedly, "guess what Raz!"
"What?" Raziel replied dully, rolling his eyes.
"Tomorrow is my birthday!" she said loudly jumping up and down on the sidewalk.
"Really now?"
"Yup!"
"And how old will you be?"
"I'm gonna' be 9!"
"At 4:13 p.m.. Make sure you remember that."
"But I don't wanna'!" Mikora complained.
Raziel only laughed.
Later

"Mom," Raziel said in the middle of dinner, "there is a convention at-"
"No," Raziel's mother said fiercely, "you go nowhere until you bring up your grades!"
"But mom!"
"Boy, did you hear your mother?! She said no," said Raziel's father.
Raziel lowered his head and continued eating in defeat.

After dinner, Raziel sat in his bed and daydreamed about a world like the cartoons he watched every Saturday morning. Soon enough, he had daydreamed himself to sleep.

After School The Next Day

After picking up his sister from her elementary school, the two began their walk home.

Skipping in her little plastic tiara with a single "Happy Birthday" balloon, Mikora sang Happy Birthday to herself.

"Slow down Mickie. You're going to far ahead of me," Raziel said briefly shaken from his daydream by sirens in the distance.
"Okay," she said waiting for him to catch up.
"Hey, when we get home I want you to tell mom that I have to go back to the school for extra practice."
"Why are you going back?"
"I'm not. I'm going to Rodricks house to play video games. But you can't tell mom okay?" Raziel said holding a finger in front of his lips. "Promise me you won't tell."
"I promise," she replied beaming at him.
"Good."

On the walk home, Raziel noticed more sirens in the distance. Why are there so many sirens...I don't see a fire, Raziel thought while scanning the skyline for smoke. Eventually when he couldn't spot any black plumes, he just shrugged it off and went off to his daydreams.

When they got home, Raziel instantly started noticing odd things here and there. Their mother wasn't home was the first thing he noticed.

"Where is mommy Raz?" Mikora asked.
"I don't know. She probably went to the store late today," he said trying not to seem worried even though he knows that his mother always goes to the store in the mornings in order to stay out of traffic.

"Come on. Let's go in." Raziel fished the spare key from under the front mat and went inside.

3:53 p.m.

Raziel awoke to his little sister screaming. He jumped out of his bed and stood, listening for the faintest sound. The house was dead quiet.

After a few seconds of silence he called out his sisters name, "Mickie?"

He ran downstairs and scanned the house for his little sister. To his horror, he did not find his sister, but his father, covered in blood outside the front door in the driveway. He was kneeling over someone in a dress.

Dazed from the initial shock of seeing his father in such a state, it took him a few moments before he realized that the dress was his mothers.

"Mom!" he screamed as he ran out the door to meet with his father and mother, barely dodging his Mikora who was running inside the house.

He stopped a few feet away from his father and almost threw up. Her stomach was torn open and her entrails were spilled.

Barely holding back vomit, though not holding back tears, he spoke to his father, "Dad...what's going on? What's wrong with mom?"

His father did not reply.

"Dad!" he said more forcefully.

No response.

"DAD!" he said walking up and grabbing his father's shoulder.

His father spun around, holding his wives heart between his teeth. His eyes were no longer the warm shade of brown Raziel was used to but a distorted blind grey with blood in the pupil and spotted in the iris. His shirt was soaked with blood and giblits of things that were supposed to be inside Raziel's mother.

"Dad! What are you doing?!" Raziel screamed.

His father stared at him and after a moment, dropped the still-beating heart from his mouth and bellowed at Raziel like a hell-fire demonic harpie. He got up and stared at Raziel lustfully, hungrily even.

"Dad...what's wrong with you?"

Raziel's father jumped at his son with his hateful blood-stained eyes, grabbing him and staring into what Raziel felt was his soul.

Out of panic, Raziel struggled and kicked and hit. His fathers grip was too strong but luckily enough, he still had every males natural physical weakness. After kicking his father in the groin as hard as he could, Raziel shook free from his fathers grip and ran inside the house with his sister.

Razzie

Razzie's Avatar
So liek...heavn bugged me about it so I posted it here.

*Note* I like to write stories. Sorry for the length as it does span more than 1 post but writing is my thing! ^-^ If you read the entire thing, I promise you will not be disappointed.


Name: Raziel (Razzie) Beredle
Gender: Male
Age: 23
Height: 6' 2"
Weight: 187.3 lbs.
Body Type: Athletic
Race/Ethnicity: African-American
Faction: The Templars
Family: His brothers and sisters within The Templars.
Hair: Usually a high & tight fade (0->3 up the head to the top).
Accessories: 1) Black aviators with small Templar symbols on the sides. 2) Matching black leather gloves with Templar symbols as buttons at the wrists. 3) Small gold chain around his neck with a Templar cross at the end under his clothes. 4) Large Attaché briefcase holding all his weapons, gadgets, and weapon modifications so he can change weapon types in the middle of the fight. 5) He has a picture of his late sister Mikora in his left chest pocket in his suit and kisses it each time he goes out to extinguish evil.
Clothes: He wears a full white/grey suit with small red vertical stripes, a red collar shirt with a black overshirt and a white tie with thick diagonal red stripes. All the buttons in his suit have small Templar symbols as buttons. Over top his suit is a long black leather trench coat with a large Templar symbol at the upper portion of the back.
Shoes: He wears shined black Oxford dress shoes with altered insoles for comfort and altered outersoles for traction and mobility.
Weapons: 1) A collapsible modified version of the G36/AUG-A3 in mid-range situations with optional modifications ie. silenced for quiet ops, extended magazines for firefights, night scopes for night ops etc. (All modifications are carried in his Attaché case). 2) For closer range, he uses twin Desert Eagle pistols with explosive tipped .50 cal rounds which are kept in his coat inside specially designed holsters for maximum drawing efficiency. 3) In special long range cases, a silenced Barret .50 cal rifle for long range heavy stopping power and fire support which is kept dissasembled in several pieces in a second section in the above mentioned Attaché case. 4) In the extremely rare case that it comes to having to resort to melee fighting, he has a specially designed katana which is hidden in his trench coat inside a sheath at his back which can be reached without any hesitation or problems. It is made out of a special super-light, super-dense, alloy which becomes sharper the more it is used.
Skills/Attributes: He always had an interest in lightning. His sister and him would watch thunder storms for a glimpse of lightning. Out of her honor and his personal interest, he has become very masterful in the art of lightning manipulation and can control it in any way he sees fit.
Personality: He prefers to be alone when on the battlefield or anywhere a battle can be held. Once in a peacful safe enviroment, he opens up and is a very kind, fun-loving, happy-go-lucky person always looking out for others. If forced to be on the battlefield with others, he is usually very easily irritated if anyone should compromise his safety or their own; although in a moments notice, he will jump to their aid if need be.
Likes: Killing demons, drinking wine, making jokes, most kinds of music (classical mostly), and protecting the ones he cares for.
Dislikes: People who are careless and can get themselves or others killed.
Motto: "Pain is only weakness leaving the body..."
Backstory/Origin:
Before The Mist...

Before the Mist, Raziel was a normal black kid in Orlando, Florida.

He had a mom, a dad, and a little sister. He went to a normal middle school and had normal friends and normal middle school kid problems. He had a normal life. A normal boring life.

Sometimes, he thought to himself, Why does life have to be so boring? I wish something interesting would happen. What if something weird happened like in one of the super hero movies? It would be so cool if I could control lightning or run super fast or fly! ...I wonder what it takes to get a radioactive spider to bite you.... Or better yet, I would much rather be The Human Torch!

He would daydream all day in class about super heroes and valient crusades against evil villains...but in the end...it was purely that. Daydreams.

One uneventful day, he was walking home from school with his little sister Mikora.

"Hey," said Mikora excitedly, "guess what Raz!"
"What?" Raziel replied dully, rolling his eyes.
"Tomorrow is my birthday!" she said loudly jumping up and down on the sidewalk.
"Really now?"
"Yup!"
"And how old will you be?"
"I'm gonna' be 9!"
"At 4:13 p.m.. Make sure you remember that."
"But I don't wanna'!" Mikora complained.
Raziel only laughed.
Later

"Mom," Raziel said in the middle of dinner, "there is a convention at-"
"No," Raziel's mother said fiercely, "you go nowhere until you bring up your grades!"
"But mom!"
"Boy, did you hear your mother?! She said no," said Raziel's father.
Raziel lowered his head and continued eating in defeat.

After dinner, Raziel sat in his bed and daydreamed about a world like the cartoons he watched every Saturday morning. Soon enough, he had daydreamed himself to sleep.

After School The Next Day

After picking up his sister from her elementary school, the two began their walk home.

Skipping in her little plastic tiara with a single "Happy Birthday" balloon, Mikora sang Happy Birthday to herself.

"Slow down Mickie. You're going to far ahead of me," Raziel said briefly shaken from his daydream by sirens in the distance.
"Okay," she said waiting for him to catch up.
"Hey, when we get home I want you to tell mom that I have to go back to the school for extra practice."
"Why are you going back?"
"I'm not. I'm going to Rodricks house to play video games. But you can't tell mom okay?" Raziel said holding a finger in front of his lips. "Promise me you won't tell."
"I promise," she replied beaming at him.
"Good."

On the walk home, Raziel noticed more sirens in the distance. Why are there so many sirens...I don't see a fire, Raziel thought while scanning the skyline for smoke. Eventually when he couldn't spot any black plumes, he just shrugged it off and went off to his daydreams.

When they got home, Raziel instantly started noticing odd things here and there. Their mother wasn't home was the first thing he noticed.

"Where is mommy Raz?" Mikora asked.
"I don't know. She probably went to the store late today," he said trying not to seem worried even though he knows that his mother always goes to the store in the mornings in order to stay out of traffic.

"Come on. Let's go in." Raziel fished the spare key from under the front mat and went inside.

3:53 p.m.

Raziel awoke to his little sister screaming. He jumped out of his bed and stood, listening for the faintest sound. The house was dead quiet.

After a few seconds of silence he called out his sisters name, "Mickie?"

He ran downstairs and scanned the house for his little sister. To his horror, he did not find his sister, but his father, covered in blood outside the front door in the driveway. He was kneeling over someone in a dress.

Dazed from the initial shock of seeing his father in such a state, it took him a few moments before he realized that the dress was his mothers.

"Mom!" he screamed as he ran out the door to meet with his father and mother, barely dodging his Mikora who was running inside the house.

He stopped a few feet away from his father and almost threw up. Her stomach was torn open and her entrails were spilled.

Barely holding back vomit, though not holding back tears, he spoke to his father, "Dad...what's going on? What's wrong with mom?"

His father did not reply.

"Dad!" he said more forcefully.

No response.

"DAD!" he said walking up and grabbing his father's shoulder.

His father spun around, holding his wives heart between his teeth. His eyes were no longer the warm shade of brown Raziel was used to but a distorted blind grey with blood in the pupil and spotted in the iris. His shirt was soaked with blood and giblits of things that were supposed to be inside Raziel's mother.

"Dad! What are you doing?!" Raziel screamed.

His father stared at him and after a moment, dropped the still-beating heart from his mouth and bellowed at Raziel like a hell-fire demonic harpie. He got up and stared at Raziel lustfully, hungrily even.

"Dad...what's wrong with you?"

Raziel's father jumped at his son with his hateful blood-stained eyes, grabbing him and staring into what Raziel felt was his soul.

Out of panic, Raziel struggled and kicked and hit. His fathers grip was too strong but luckily enough, he still had every males natural physical weakness. After kicking his father in the groin as hard as he could, Raziel shook free from his fathers grip and ran inside the house with his sister.

Razzie

Razzie's Avatar
The Story Continues




3:58 p.m.

Raziel found his sister crying on the floor in a corner beside some cabinets.

"Mikora," Raziel yelled, "we have got to go now!"
"What's--wrong--with--mommy," she said stammering, "why--did--daddy--do--that--?"
"It doesn't matter! We have to go."

Raziel went to her and grabbed her hand. He also picked up the biggest knife he could find, which unfortunately wasn't all too big.

On their way out the kitchen, they stopped in their tracks by the beast that was their father.

With the knife shaking in his hand, Raziel said, "Dad...I don't want to hurt you. Please just--"

Raziel never finished his sentence due to the hindrance his father posed as he lunged head on at the children.

Mikora screamed and Raziel closed his eyes and held out the knife in front of him. Soon enough he heard his father howl in pain and hot liquid on his arms as all three of them fell over from the weight and momentum of the charging parent.

4:00 p.m.

After a moments struggle, Raziel managed to finally throw his father off. Getting up, he dropped the knife and staggered back wards, falling once more. Mikora crawled on her hands and knees to Raziel's side, quietly crying.

"It's okay," Raziel lied, "everything is going to be alright."

After a moment, Raziel got up and started running upstairs.

"Stay where you are. I'll be right back," he said.

As he got to his room, he got a duffel bag and started packing a complete change of clothes, jackets, flashlights, a couple comics, and some of his sisters favorite books. On the way down the stairs he looked at his sister who was in the same place he left her. He looked at his father. The same was with him as well. He looked outside and stopped dead in his tracks. His mother was gone.

4:04 p.m.

This turn of events didn't compute. He knew that the dead don't walk. He also knew that the undead don't abide by those rules. But contrary to that knowledge, he knew that the undead don't exist. Raziel was frozen. He couldn't think. Nothing made sense and this was too much for his poor 13 year old mind to handle. Nevertheless, he forced his legs to move at the sight of his crying sister.

I have to protect her... he thought. He made his way down the stairs and brought the duffel bag to her and laid it at her side all the while, scanning the windows for a sign of movement.

"Crap...I forgot my watch. I'll be right back ok?"
"...okay..."

He looked at her and felt sorrow, shame, and self-hatred. I was bored? I wanted something interesting? What is wrong with me?! he thought.

"Scream if anything happens," he said.
She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

After a moment, he ran up the stairs and picked his watch off his dresser and checked the time. The green digital display read "4:07" p.m.

After putting the watch on and walking down the steps he looked out the door immediately for any sign of his deceased mother.

Nothing.

He walked to his sister and looked out the window.

Nothing.

He turned, walked a few steps and picked up the knife, looking at his father, or rather, what was left of him. He turned back to his sister and scanned the windows again.

Something.

4:08 p.m.

He hesitated. Only for a moment. Maybe it was his mothers gutted stomach. Maybe it was her contemptious eyes. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn't dead. Whatever the reason, he hesitated.

His former mother punched through the window and showered him and his sister with glass. She then grabbed the young girl and pulled her out the house through the window.

By now, Mikora was kicking and screaming for her brother.

Only one word went through Raziel's mind.

Shit!

He ran toward the door with the knife and before he knew it, he was running in a random direction. He only partially knew what was going on and didn't care in the least.

He heard his sisters scream in the distance to his 2 o'clock. After situating himself, he ran in that direction. Blocks sped by. Houses, cars, trees, and mailboxes were blurs.

He heard another scream from his sister, this time behind him and slid to a halt, only to shoot off in the last known direction of his sister.

He ran down an alley and bursted through bushes to find his mother over the body of his little sister, blood pooling on the ground.

He visciously charged the woman and stabbed her once, twice, three times, four times, five all the while screaming bloody-murder. Eventually he lost count and pushed the body off his sister.

A portion of her shirt was torn and blood soaked. Her stomach was pulled open by the prying fingers of their mother. He could see her liver, kidneys and some other parts he didn't recognize. Her left leg was broken, bone stabbing through her calf. Her right arm was hanging by a few slivers of muscle.

Tears were streaming down his face. He touched his sisters face, brushed her hair back a looked at her, in her eyes. He held her in his arms, pulling her close.

"R--R--Raz...," his sister breathed.
"Shh. Don't talk," he replied through sobs of anger and mourning.
"Do--do you thi--think that mommy and daddy will be okay?"
"It doesn't matter. I need to get you to a hospital," he said. "HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME!!" he yelled as loud as he could.

When he looked back down, she smiled, and then her eyes went blank. Her body went limp and her chest stopped moving. He no longer felt the beat of her heart.

His watch went off, beeping.

After a moment, he looked at it and read the time aloud, "4:13 p.m."

"Happy Birthday Mickie," he said and began singing to her lifeless corpse.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birt--day to you. Happy--birth--birthday dear Mickie--happy birthday--to--you," he sang.

Minutes passed while he was rocking her back and forth in his arms. To him, they felt like hours, days.

Eventually as her body began to cool, he got up and kissed her forhead.

"Love you Mickie."

10 Years Later...

He is older, 23 years old.

He is stronger, able to lift twice his weight.

He is deadly, trained in the use of many firearms and the katana.

He may have lost his family, but he has gained many brothers and sisters.

Raziel is a Templar, and he...is...
PISSED

Razzie

Razzie's Avatar
The Story Continues




3:58 p.m.

Raziel found his sister crying on the floor in a corner beside some cabinets.

"Mikora," Raziel yelled, "we have got to go now!"
"What's--wrong--with--mommy," she said stammering, "why--did--daddy--do--that--?"
"It doesn't matter! We have to go."

Raziel went to her and grabbed her hand. He also picked up the biggest knife he could find, which unfortunately wasn't all too big.

On their way out the kitchen, they stopped in their tracks by the beast that was their father.

With the knife shaking in his hand, Raziel said, "Dad...I don't want to hurt you. Please just--"

Raziel never finished his sentence due to the hindrance his father posed as he lunged head on at the children.

Mikora screamed and Raziel closed his eyes and held out the knife in front of him. Soon enough he heard his father howl in pain and hot liquid on his arms as all three of them fell over from the weight and momentum of the charging parent.

4:00 p.m.

After a moments struggle, Raziel managed to finally throw his father off. Getting up, he dropped the knife and staggered back wards, falling once more. Mikora crawled on her hands and knees to Raziel's side, quietly crying.

"It's okay," Raziel lied, "everything is going to be alright."

After a moment, Raziel got up and started running upstairs.

"Stay where you are. I'll be right back," he said.

As he got to his room, he got a duffel bag and started packing a complete change of clothes, jackets, flashlights, a couple comics, and some of his sisters favorite books. On the way down the stairs he looked at his sister who was in the same place he left her. He looked at his father. The same was with him as well. He looked outside and stopped dead in his tracks. His mother was gone.

4:04 p.m.

This turn of events didn't compute. He knew that the dead don't walk. He also knew that the undead don't abide by those rules. But contrary to that knowledge, he knew that the undead don't exist. Raziel was frozen. He couldn't think. Nothing made sense and this was too much for his poor 13 year old mind to handle. Nevertheless, he forced his legs to move at the sight of his crying sister.

I have to protect her... he thought. He made his way down the stairs and brought the duffel bag to her and laid it at her side all the while, scanning the windows for a sign of movement.

"Crap...I forgot my watch. I'll be right back ok?"
"...okay..."

He looked at her and felt sorrow, shame, and self-hatred. I was bored? I wanted something interesting? What is wrong with me?! he thought.

"Scream if anything happens," he said.
She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

After a moment, he ran up the stairs and picked his watch off his dresser and checked the time. The green digital display read "4:07" p.m.

After putting the watch on and walking down the steps he looked out the door immediately for any sign of his deceased mother.

Nothing.

He walked to his sister and looked out the window.

Nothing.

He turned, walked a few steps and picked up the knife, looking at his father, or rather, what was left of him. He turned back to his sister and scanned the windows again.

Something.

4:08 p.m.

He hesitated. Only for a moment. Maybe it was his mothers gutted stomach. Maybe it was her contemptious eyes. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn't dead. Whatever the reason, he hesitated.

His former mother punched through the window and showered him and his sister with glass. She then grabbed the young girl and pulled her out the house through the window.

By now, Mikora was kicking and screaming for her brother.

Only one word went through Raziel's mind.

Shit!

He ran toward the door with the knife and before he knew it, he was running in a random direction. He only partially knew what was going on and didn't care in the least.

He heard his sisters scream in the distance to his 2 o'clock. After situating himself, he ran in that direction. Blocks sped by. Houses, cars, trees, and mailboxes were blurs.

He heard another scream from his sister, this time behind him and slid to a halt, only to shoot off in the last known direction of his sister.

He ran down an alley and bursted through bushes to find his mother over the body of his little sister, blood pooling on the ground.

He visciously charged the woman and stabbed her once, twice, three times, four times, five all the while screaming bloody-murder. Eventually he lost count and pushed the body off his sister.

A portion of her shirt was torn and blood soaked. Her stomach was pulled open by the prying fingers of their mother. He could see her liver, kidneys and some other parts he didn't recognize. Her left leg was broken, bone stabbing through her calf. Her right arm was hanging by a few slivers of muscle.

Tears were streaming down his face. He touched his sisters face, brushed her hair back a looked at her, in her eyes. He held her in his arms, pulling her close.

"R--R--Raz...," his sister breathed.
"Shh. Don't talk," he replied through sobs of anger and mourning.
"Do--do you thi--think that mommy and daddy will be okay?"
"It doesn't matter. I need to get you to a hospital," he said. "HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME!!" he yelled as loud as he could.

When he looked back down, she smiled, and then her eyes went blank. Her body went limp and her chest stopped moving. He no longer felt the beat of her heart.

His watch went off, beeping.

After a moment, he looked at it and read the time aloud, "4:13 p.m."

"Happy Birthday Mickie," he said and began singing to her lifeless corpse.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birt--day to you. Happy--birth--birthday dear Mickie--happy birthday--to--you," he sang.

Minutes passed while he was rocking her back and forth in his arms. To him, they felt like hours, days.

Eventually as her body began to cool, he got up and kissed her forhead.

"Love you Mickie."

10 Years Later...

He is older, 23 years old.

He is stronger, able to lift twice his weight.

He is deadly, trained in the use of many firearms and the katana.

He may have lost his family, but he has gained many brothers and sisters.

Raziel is a Templar, and he...is...
PISSED

Razzie

Razzie's Avatar
The Story Continues




3:58 p.m.

Raziel found his sister crying on the floor in a corner beside some cabinets.

"Mikora," Raziel yelled, "we have got to go now!"
"What's--wrong--with--mommy," she said stammering, "why--did--daddy--do--that--?"
"It doesn't matter! We have to go."

Raziel went to her and grabbed her hand. He also picked up the biggest knife he could find, which unfortunately wasn't all too big.

On their way out the kitchen, they stopped in their tracks by the beast that was their father.

With the knife shaking in his hand, Raziel said, "Dad...I don't want to hurt you. Please just--"

Raziel never finished his sentence due to the hindrance his father posed as he lunged head on at the children.

Mikora screamed and Raziel closed his eyes and held out the knife in front of him. Soon enough he heard his father howl in pain and hot liquid on his arms as all three of them fell over from the weight and momentum of the charging parent.

4:00 p.m.

After a moments struggle, Raziel managed to finally throw his father off. Getting up, he dropped the knife and staggered back wards, falling once more. Mikora crawled on her hands and knees to Raziel's side, quietly crying.

"It's okay," Raziel lied, "everything is going to be alright."

After a moment, Raziel got up and started running upstairs.

"Stay where you are. I'll be right back," he said.

As he got to his room, he got a duffel bag and started packing a complete change of clothes, jackets, flashlights, a couple comics, and some of his sisters favorite books. On the way down the stairs he looked at his sister who was in the same place he left her. He looked at his father. The same was with him as well. He looked outside and stopped dead in his tracks. His mother was gone.

4:04 p.m.

This turn of events didn't compute. He knew that the dead don't walk. He also knew that the undead don't abide by those rules. But contrary to that knowledge, he knew that the undead don't exist. Raziel was frozen. He couldn't think. Nothing made sense and this was too much for his poor 13 year old mind to handle. Nevertheless, he forced his legs to move at the sight of his crying sister.

I have to protect her... he thought. He made his way down the stairs and brought the duffel bag to her and laid it at her side all the while, scanning the windows for a sign of movement.

"Crap...I forgot my watch. I'll be right back ok?"
"...okay..."

He looked at her and felt sorrow, shame, and self-hatred. I was bored? I wanted something interesting? What is wrong with me?! he thought.

"Scream if anything happens," he said.
She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

After a moment, he ran up the stairs and picked his watch off his dresser and checked the time. The green digital display read "4:07" p.m.

After putting the watch on and walking down the steps he looked out the door immediately for any sign of his deceased mother.

Nothing.

He walked to his sister and looked out the window.

Nothing.

He turned, walked a few steps and picked up the knife, looking at his father, or rather, what was left of him. He turned back to his sister and scanned the windows again.

Something.

4:08 p.m.

He hesitated. Only for a moment. Maybe it was his mothers gutted stomach. Maybe it was her contemptious eyes. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn't dead. Whatever the reason, he hesitated.

His former mother punched through the window and showered him and his sister with glass. She then grabbed the young girl and pulled her out the house through the window.

By now, Mikora was kicking and screaming for her brother.

Only one word went through Raziel's mind.

Shit!

He ran toward the door with the knife and before he knew it, he was running in a random direction. He only partially knew what was going on and didn't care in the least.

He heard his sisters scream in the distance to his 2 o'clock. After situating himself, he ran in that direction. Blocks sped by. Houses, cars, trees, and mailboxes were blurs.

He heard another scream from his sister, this time behind him and slid to a halt, only to shoot off in the last known direction of his sister.

He ran down an alley and bursted through bushes to find his mother over the body of his little sister, blood pooling on the ground.

He visciously charged the woman and stabbed her once, twice, three times, four times, five all the while screaming bloody-murder. Eventually he lost count and pushed the body off his sister.

A portion of her shirt was torn and blood soaked. Her stomach was pulled open by the prying fingers of their mother. He could see her liver, kidneys and some other parts he didn't recognize. Her left leg was broken, bone stabbing through her calf. Her right arm was hanging by a few slivers of muscle.

Tears were streaming down his face. He touched his sisters face, brushed her hair back a looked at her, in her eyes. He held her in his arms, pulling her close.

"R--R--Raz...," his sister breathed.
"Shh. Don't talk," he replied through sobs of anger and mourning.
"Do--do you thi--think that mommy and daddy will be okay?"
"It doesn't matter. I need to get you to a hospital," he said. "HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME!!" he yelled as loud as he could.

When he looked back down, she smiled, and then her eyes went blank. Her body went limp and her chest stopped moving. He no longer felt the beat of her heart.

His watch went off, beeping.

After a moment, he looked at it and read the time aloud, "4:13 p.m."

"Happy Birthday Mickie," he said and began singing to her lifeless corpse.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birt--day to you. Happy--birth--birthday dear Mickie--happy birthday--to--you," he sang.

Minutes passed while he was rocking her back and forth in his arms. To him, they felt like hours, days.

Eventually as her body began to cool, he got up and kissed her forhead.

"Love you Mickie."

10 Years Later...

He is older, 23 years old.

He is stronger, able to lift twice his weight.

He is deadly, trained in the use of many firearms and the katana.

He may have lost his family, but he has gained many brothers and sisters.

Raziel is a Templar, and he...is...
PISSED

Kriegjaeger

Name: KriegJaeger (Warhunter, Also uses the alias "erlosung" [salvation])
Sex: Male
Age: Appears early twenties
Height: 5'11"
Nationality: Presumed German
Ethnic Background: European
Appearance:

* Build: Heavily muscled, Military (upper body) build.
* Hair: Closely or neck length and tapered.
* Hair Colour: Dirty blond (Natrual) or raven blue
* Eye Colour: Azure
* Skin Colour: Pale

* Distinguishing Features: A partially obscured tattoo of a modernistic cross wraps around his right bicep.

* Clothing: Preferring urban camouflage fatigues and combat boots with gunmetal reinforcement on the heel and tip, a thigh holster for his mossberg 500 and satchel of grenades on his left.
His loadout above that varies, though he usually employs a custom ballistics vest converted from a motorcycle Kevlar vest to hold armor plates, a crossbow slung across his back with the bolts held horizontally in the small of his back. A pair of goggles resting on his forehead keeps the sweat out of his eyes and perform their more mundane function as well.


Skills: A veteran mercenary, he employs a wealth of combat experience on the field as it can be applied to his foes. More than once he has found many tactics and stratagems to be effective when modified slightly, and is constantly adding to a list of useful notes on creatures he has encountered to the archives of the templar, where behavior, weaknesses and other relevant information is concerned.

Though he does not prefer it, he is also a highly effective leader and trainer when it comes to the war on the forces of darkness. From squad to command levels, he has shown a propensity to incorporate the often missed human elements to his troops than many a lifetime officer might never be knowledgeable of. Having been in their situation, he knows how best to employ his troops using often overlooked and undervalued micro-terrain and physical reconnection.

Weapons and Gear/Equipment: All of his weapons are modular, as any specific situation might call for any specific solution, he has many volatile solutions. His preferred type of round is a 12 gauge fleechet.

Discontinued after testing in vietnam due to the projectile being deemed "inhumane" considering the horrific damage they could incur, armor or otherwise, the round has longer range, higher accuracy, and causes more damage than any pellet.

On top of this he has standard double aught buckshot, hollowed slugs carrying holy water at their cores, frangible slugs, and micro-explosive rounds with small packs of C-4 at the tip.

His crossbow is likewise, varied in ammunition. From magnesium cored bolts that burn a fraction the surface of the sun when fired, to porous wood dripping with holy water that splatters on impact, to bolts with hooks in the tip and incense burners hanging by a small chain in the rear that purify the very air around the point of impact. And continue to well after, the struggles of the target only spreading the delightful and utterly poisonous (to the damned) scent.

Supernatural Abilities: If anything could be considered supernatural about Kriegjaeger, it would likely be his gaze. Frigid, azure eyes, like chips of ice have been known to steel the resolve of his troops, and turn the guts of his foes to water (Metaphorically speaking, of course). Even amongst the templars, few find it easy to hold his gaze for long.

Interests and Goals: Kriegjaeger did not become a mercenary by choice. As a matter of fact, his name is simply a title bestowed upon him by the squad he served in around twelve years of age, due to his propensity to constantly seek conflict. Hardened by years of warfare, he has come to see every political ideology and form of government's fatal flaws.
The "good" and "evil", "allies" and "enemies" are simple perceptions that are changed at the convenience of the modern "nobility" and royalty. There is no truth in such a life. Only when a man can pick and choose his battles, can he determine for himself the truth.

Well, one fateful day in an undisclosed location, Krieg found the ultimate foe, the ultimate enemy, the ageless foe of mankind, and his allies against them.

To this day he has never felt any desire to leave them or question his perceptions.

Background/ short (?) story!:A mercenary from near childbirth, he was "bred" and trained in a questionable research program, sold off to an African warlord who held no compunctuations about using children. His prowess soon noted, he was given a offer with a token sum and more importantly, his freedom if he was to help engineer the defeat of said warlord.

Needless to say, he agreed, but found that he had only exchanged one leash for another, fighting in the various conflicts within the dissolved USSR, it was only in his teen years that he finally was strong enough to horde enough rations to escape and live for a time within a semblance of normalcy.

Though the silence was abhorrent. In the years before him gunfire had become a lullaby, the crump and shake of distant explosions had rocked him to sleep, and the smell of carbon had woke him every morning. He had no concept of how to grow food, or find a job. No desire for it either. He knew killing was wrong, and he did not enjoy it, though it was the only thing that give him purpose in this life.

Until this point, Krieg had not known an alphabet of any language. No numbers. No history or religion. He was quiet in that the only thing he did know how to do aside from kill, was how to take orders. Anyone attempting to speak out of turn, which was the majority of the time anyone was listening, was beaten.
So it was cautiously he approached the next convoy of battered military transports heading towards the sounds of conflict.

It seemed that after a life of misfortune, he was finally due his day. The group was in fact a band of russian missionaries heading for the village that was currently embroiled in conflict. Despite his nature, he advised them as best he could and ultimately saved them all from driving straight into a uncaring crossfire between government forces and local militia fighting for the village.

In time, they taught him everthing a boy of 18 should have known many years ago, all of which he took quietly and with only a slight nod here or a tiny quirk of his lips there. It was, however, not long before conflict found him again when the local militia decided that they could use the vehicles and supplies more than the missionaries could. When the leader protested, they mercilessly killed her, and started to open fire upon the convoy.

Though there was precious little left in the boy to be broken, something was certainly strained. Within moments, he was the only human left standing amongst the dead, militia and missionary, a bloodstained knife in one hand, a Kalashnikov with his finger still crushing the trigger in the other.

What little remained of his sanity then was pushed to the brink, as a man rose from the blood churned soil and began to laugh. It addressed him in a voice that caused his eyes to tear and words that made his brain feel like it was being stabbed with kitchen knives. In the space of a blink, it crossed the space between them and impossibly towered above him.

He could not have known what the thing would have done, though he knew that more than his life was at risk,even with what little concept he had of a soul. Though he needn't worry. Sure as the sun breaks the darkness before it each day, the first to die, the leader of the missioners now stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder and a pile of ashes where the creature had once been.

With a kind smile on her wizened face, she gently lead him away from the bloodstained battleground of his past, and into a future filled with the light.

Kriegjaeger

Name: KriegJaeger (Warhunter, Also uses the alias "erlosung" [salvation])
Sex: Male
Age: Appears early twenties
Height: 5'11"
Nationality: Presumed German
Ethnic Background: European
Appearance:

* Build: Heavily muscled, Military (upper body) build.
* Hair: Closely or neck length and tapered.
* Hair Colour: Dirty blond (Natrual) or raven blue
* Eye Colour: Azure
* Skin Colour: Pale

* Distinguishing Features: A partially obscured tattoo of a modernistic cross wraps around his right bicep.

* Clothing: Preferring urban camouflage fatigues and combat boots with gunmetal reinforcement on the heel and tip, a thigh holster for his mossberg 500 and satchel of grenades on his left.
His loadout above that varies, though he usually employs a custom ballistics vest converted from a motorcycle Kevlar vest to hold armor plates, a crossbow slung across his back with the bolts held horizontally in the small of his back. A pair of goggles resting on his forehead keeps the sweat out of his eyes and perform their more mundane function as well.


Skills: A veteran mercenary, he employs a wealth of combat experience on the field as it can be applied to his foes. More than once he has found many tactics and stratagems to be effective when modified slightly, and is constantly adding to a list of useful notes on creatures he has encountered to the archives of the templar, where behavior, weaknesses and other relevant information is concerned.

Though he does not prefer it, he is also a highly effective leader and trainer when it comes to the war on the forces of darkness. From squad to command levels, he has shown a propensity to incorporate the often missed human elements to his troops than many a lifetime officer might never be knowledgeable of. Having been in their situation, he knows how best to employ his troops using often overlooked and undervalued micro-terrain and physical reconnection.

Weapons and Gear/Equipment: All of his weapons are modular, as any specific situation might call for any specific solution, he has many volatile solutions. His preferred type of round is a 12 gauge fleechet.

Discontinued after testing in vietnam due to the projectile being deemed "inhumane" considering the horrific damage they could incur, armor or otherwise, the round has longer range, higher accuracy, and causes more damage than any pellet.

On top of this he has standard double aught buckshot, hollowed slugs carrying holy water at their cores, frangible slugs, and micro-explosive rounds with small packs of C-4 at the tip.

His crossbow is likewise, varied in ammunition. From magnesium cored bolts that burn a fraction the surface of the sun when fired, to porous wood dripping with holy water that splatters on impact, to bolts with hooks in the tip and incense burners hanging by a small chain in the rear that purify the very air around the point of impact. And continue to well after, the struggles of the target only spreading the delightful and utterly poisonous (to the damned) scent.

Supernatural Abilities: If anything could be considered supernatural about Kriegjaeger, it would likely be his gaze. Frigid, azure eyes, like chips of ice have been known to steel the resolve of his troops, and turn the guts of his foes to water (Metaphorically speaking, of course). Even amongst the templars, few find it easy to hold his gaze for long.

Interests and Goals: Kriegjaeger did not become a mercenary by choice. As a matter of fact, his name is simply a title bestowed upon him by the squad he served in around twelve years of age, due to his propensity to constantly seek conflict. Hardened by years of warfare, he has come to see every political ideology and form of government's fatal flaws.
The "good" and "evil", "allies" and "enemies" are simple perceptions that are changed at the convenience of the modern "nobility" and royalty. There is no truth in such a life. Only when a man can pick and choose his battles, can he determine for himself the truth.

Well, one fateful day in an undisclosed location, Krieg found the ultimate foe, the ultimate enemy, the ageless foe of mankind, and his allies against them.

To this day he has never felt any desire to leave them or question his perceptions.

Background/ short (?) story!:A mercenary from near childbirth, he was "bred" and trained in a questionable research program, sold off to an African warlord who held no compunctuations about using children. His prowess soon noted, he was given a offer with a token sum and more importantly, his freedom if he was to help engineer the defeat of said warlord.

Needless to say, he agreed, but found that he had only exchanged one leash for another, fighting in the various conflicts within the dissolved USSR, it was only in his teen years that he finally was strong enough to horde enough rations to escape and live for a time within a semblance of normalcy.

Though the silence was abhorrent. In the years before him gunfire had become a lullaby, the crump and shake of distant explosions had rocked him to sleep, and the smell of carbon had woke him every morning. He had no concept of how to grow food, or find a job. No desire for it either. He knew killing was wrong, and he did not enjoy it, though it was the only thing that give him purpose in this life.

Until this point, Krieg had not known an alphabet of any language. No numbers. No history or religion. He was quiet in that the only thing he did know how to do aside from kill, was how to take orders. Anyone attempting to speak out of turn, which was the majority of the time anyone was listening, was beaten.
So it was cautiously he approached the next convoy of battered military transports heading towards the sounds of conflict.

It seemed that after a life of misfortune, he was finally due his day. The group was in fact a band of russian missionaries heading for the village that was currently embroiled in conflict. Despite his nature, he advised them as best he could and ultimately saved them all from driving straight into a uncaring crossfire between government forces and local militia fighting for the village.

In time, they taught him everthing a boy of 18 should have known many years ago, all of which he took quietly and with only a slight nod here or a tiny quirk of his lips there. It was, however, not long before conflict found him again when the local militia decided that they could use the vehicles and supplies more than the missionaries could. When the leader protested, they mercilessly killed her, and started to open fire upon the convoy.

Though there was precious little left in the boy to be broken, something was certainly strained. Within moments, he was the only human left standing amongst the dead, militia and missionary, a bloodstained knife in one hand, a Kalashnikov with his finger still crushing the trigger in the other.

What little remained of his sanity then was pushed to the brink, as a man rose from the blood churned soil and began to laugh. It addressed him in a voice that caused his eyes to tear and words that made his brain feel like it was being stabbed with kitchen knives. In the space of a blink, it crossed the space between them and impossibly towered above him.

He could not have known what the thing would have done, though he knew that more than his life was at risk,even with what little concept he had of a soul. Though he needn't worry. Sure as the sun breaks the darkness before it each day, the first to die, the leader of the missioners now stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder and a pile of ashes where the creature had once been.

With a kind smile on her wizened face, she gently lead him away from the bloodstained battleground of his past, and into a future filled with the light.

Kriegjaeger

Name: KriegJaeger (Warhunter, Also uses the alias "erlosung" [salvation])
Sex: Male
Age: Appears early twenties
Height: 5'11"
Nationality: Presumed German
Ethnic Background: European
Appearance:

* Build: Heavily muscled, Military (upper body) build.
* Hair: Closely or neck length and tapered.
* Hair Colour: Dirty blond (Natrual) or raven blue
* Eye Colour: Azure
* Skin Colour: Pale

* Distinguishing Features: A partially obscured tattoo of a modernistic cross wraps around his right bicep.

* Clothing: Preferring urban camouflage fatigues and combat boots with gunmetal reinforcement on the heel and tip, a thigh holster for his mossberg 500 and satchel of grenades on his left.
His loadout above that varies, though he usually employs a custom ballistics vest converted from a motorcycle Kevlar vest to hold armor plates, a crossbow slung across his back with the bolts held horizontally in the small of his back. A pair of goggles resting on his forehead keeps the sweat out of his eyes and perform their more mundane function as well.


Skills: A veteran mercenary, he employs a wealth of combat experience on the field as it can be applied to his foes. More than once he has found many tactics and stratagems to be effective when modified slightly, and is constantly adding to a list of useful notes on creatures he has encountered to the archives of the templar, where behavior, weaknesses and other relevant information is concerned.

Though he does not prefer it, he is also a highly effective leader and trainer when it comes to the war on the forces of darkness. From squad to command levels, he has shown a propensity to incorporate the often missed human elements to his troops than many a lifetime officer might never be knowledgeable of. Having been in their situation, he knows how best to employ his troops using often overlooked and undervalued micro-terrain and physical reconnection.

Weapons and Gear/Equipment: All of his weapons are modular, as any specific situation might call for any specific solution, he has many volatile solutions. His preferred type of round is a 12 gauge fleechet.

Discontinued after testing in vietnam due to the projectile being deemed "inhumane" considering the horrific damage they could incur, armor or otherwise, the round has longer range, higher accuracy, and causes more damage than any pellet.

On top of this he has standard double aught buckshot, hollowed slugs carrying holy water at their cores, frangible slugs, and micro-explosive rounds with small packs of C-4 at the tip.

His crossbow is likewise, varied in ammunition. From magnesium cored bolts that burn a fraction the surface of the sun when fired, to porous wood dripping with holy water that splatters on impact, to bolts with hooks in the tip and incense burners hanging by a small chain in the rear that purify the very air around the point of impact. And continue to well after, the struggles of the target only spreading the delightful and utterly poisonous (to the damned) scent.

Supernatural Abilities: If anything could be considered supernatural about Kriegjaeger, it would likely be his gaze. Frigid, azure eyes, like chips of ice have been known to steel the resolve of his troops, and turn the guts of his foes to water (Metaphorically speaking, of course). Even amongst the templars, few find it easy to hold his gaze for long.

Interests and Goals: Kriegjaeger did not become a mercenary by choice. As a matter of fact, his name is simply a title bestowed upon him by the squad he served in around twelve years of age, due to his propensity to constantly seek conflict. Hardened by years of warfare, he has come to see every political ideology and form of government's fatal flaws.
The "good" and "evil", "allies" and "enemies" are simple perceptions that are changed at the convenience of the modern "nobility" and royalty. There is no truth in such a life. Only when a man can pick and choose his battles, can he determine for himself the truth.

Well, one fateful day in an undisclosed location, Krieg found the ultimate foe, the ultimate enemy, the ageless foe of mankind, and his allies against them.

To this day he has never felt any desire to leave them or question his perceptions.

Background/ short (?) story!:A mercenary from near childbirth, he was "bred" and trained in a questionable research program, sold off to an African warlord who held no compunctuations about using children. His prowess soon noted, he was given a offer with a token sum and more importantly, his freedom if he was to help engineer the defeat of said warlord.

Needless to say, he agreed, but found that he had only exchanged one leash for another, fighting in the various conflicts within the dissolved USSR, it was only in his teen years that he finally was strong enough to horde enough rations to escape and live for a time within a semblance of normalcy.

Though the silence was abhorrent. In the years before him gunfire had become a lullaby, the crump and shake of distant explosions had rocked him to sleep, and the smell of carbon had woke him every morning. He had no concept of how to grow food, or find a job. No desire for it either. He knew killing was wrong, and he did not enjoy it, though it was the only thing that give him purpose in this life.

Until this point, Krieg had not known an alphabet of any language. No numbers. No history or religion. He was quiet in that the only thing he did know how to do aside from kill, was how to take orders. Anyone attempting to speak out of turn, which was the majority of the time anyone was listening, was beaten.
So it was cautiously he approached the next convoy of battered military transports heading towards the sounds of conflict.

It seemed that after a life of misfortune, he was finally due his day. The group was in fact a band of russian missionaries heading for the village that was currently embroiled in conflict. Despite his nature, he advised them as best he could and ultimately saved them all from driving straight into a uncaring crossfire between government forces and local militia fighting for the village.

In time, they taught him everthing a boy of 18 should have known many years ago, all of which he took quietly and with only a slight nod here or a tiny quirk of his lips there. It was, however, not long before conflict found him again when the local militia decided that they could use the vehicles and supplies more than the missionaries could. When the leader protested, they mercilessly killed her, and started to open fire upon the convoy.

Though there was precious little left in the boy to be broken, something was certainly strained. Within moments, he was the only human left standing amongst the dead, militia and missionary, a bloodstained knife in one hand, a Kalashnikov with his finger still crushing the trigger in the other.

What little remained of his sanity then was pushed to the brink, as a man rose from the blood churned soil and began to laugh. It addressed him in a voice that caused his eyes to tear and words that made his brain feel like it was being stabbed with kitchen knives. In the space of a blink, it crossed the space between them and impossibly towered above him.

He could not have known what the thing would have done, though he knew that more than his life was at risk,even with what little concept he had of a soul. Though he needn't worry. Sure as the sun breaks the darkness before it each day, the first to die, the leader of the missioners now stood beside him, a hand on his shoulder and a pile of ashes where the creature had once been.

With a kind smile on her wizened face, she gently lead him away from the bloodstained battleground of his past, and into a future filled with the light.
 

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