Character of the Week

[Professor Ven]

Can I submit William Lane Craig, a 'leading' creationist Christian apologist 'philosopher', as my character?

aka hello I am Jezza Orion-san and I am sciency poop and I hates stupid creationist poops not because of their religion but because they are ignorant turds

 

[OmniChaos]

Sorry, original characters only.

But clever nonetheless.

 

[Professor Ven]

Sorry, original characters only.

But clever nonetheless.

Technically he could do it if he's creative enough, Omnoms

 

[OmniChaos]

Technically he could do it if he's creative enough, Omnoms

Key word being "if."

 

[OmniChaos]

Due to insufficient entries, this week's theme will be carried over for another week.

 

[OmniChaos]

Alright, onemore week for someone else to get their character in, otherwise the person who submitted a character will win by default, and we'll just continue on from there.

 

[Orion]

I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING MY BRAIN IS DUMB

 

[OmniChaos]

Alright. I apologize for my tardiness in doing this, but life has been fairly busy for me as of late, and that, plus my little story I've started, has been keeping me a bit distracted.

Since week eleven received only one submission, Professor Ven wins by default.

Spoiler Show

The once green and beautiful forest was now dark and bare; even as the Guardian sat on a log at the side of the path that wound its way perpetually through the ancient grove, he only pondered, mind riddling away at the same old thoughts.

Once I crafted this world with a steady hand, and I gave them freedom to work as they wished. Good and Evil would work against one another, but ultimately they only canceled each other. Those who worked under Neutrality ruined this creation -too many of them, too many! Those who chose to simply do nothing to better their world, to fuel the fires of their ambition, to embrace their calling destroyed this paradise. I fear this will not be the last time mine hand will be forced to mend such fallacies.

. . . those foolish Grey-Cloaks. I should have stopped them from crafting the Doors - and now, even I cannot remove them; hopefully the manner in which I have hidden them will spare this world from this catastrophe reoccurring. Only the Dawn City was spared, and Kagám keeps it safe, as commanded. I hung all the Grey-Cloaks that were in the Dawn City for all to see, before I went to their infernal Gray Tower, and cast it down - and now I wait here.

Once these trees were vibrant in green and yellow, their boughs bearing fruit for most of the year, until the snows would come. I can still recall the various creatures that inhabited this grove. The flowers here bloomed always on the eve of spring, and dawn of summer. The rivers always flooded when the Water Carrier ascended in spring. . .

The Guardian was draped in sin - nothing of him was different from any other that remained in this realm, save for that his long coat had buttons forged of dia'seri, the strange metal which gave its wearers the ability to manipulate what little light remained in the world - and seven pins, each depicting heraldry upon them, sat upon the coat's collar. His dark leather boots had taken him astride every space, both before and after the Sundering. A rod of gold remained perfectly in the Guardian's gloved grip, as he remained sitting by the wayside.

Osi'ran will keep me company, for now, at least. Barring the rod, I have mine books. Se'Chientz, Tamale Nu'Mink, Sole'attir, give me the strength to return that which was lost - surely your wisdom will aid me in this struggle. Give me once more the power of the wind.

A wide-brimmed hat kept his face in darkness, concealing his hair, though the tell-tale glimmer of blue eyes would often flash from behind silver-rimmed spectacles. Only the shape of the Guardian's face could be made out.

Soon, young Petra will come with the Stone that must be placed. Should he not, then the World is doomed to this same catastrophe; and that does not sit very well with the ending I have in mind for this tale.

Bootsteps echoed through the Grove of the Void, the crunching sound of the path's dirt - glassed by the Sundering - breaking the abyssal silence that the Guardian had been left in. He rose from his sitting position, hand still gripping the golden rod, Osi'ran, gently.

The black-clad troupe that approached ringed around the cart - pulled by the smith with a single hand - were merely illusions. They were another attempt by the Guardian, another failed attempt to halt the apocalypse when it had began. Oh, yes, they appeared human, but if one were to come close to them, and stare into the face of these koru'garde, the onlooker would see only their own face's reflection. And that onlooker's face would remain as the koru'garde's own until another looked upon it.

And so the World was Sundered, and the Void was unleashed. The only thing Voidlings fear is their own reflection, or the Dawn City's walls would have never stopped them, and Petra would, despite his strength, been overwhelmed, if not for my failed koru'garde.

Petra Kokaya wore, as he always had since the Dawn, the red and brown working clothes, red and black veil covering the bottom half of his face - though he removed it as he stopped the cart, and took a few paces to the Guardian, nodding only in silent respect.

"Sheil'attahn, it is as you wish, so far. No trouble or disturbance on the road, save . . ." the Dawnsmith motioned to the cart, where the great cube of Void-Steel sat. A slumped figure, robed in black leaned against the Stone.

"Rie'jenn, and your constructs kept me safe as I traversed Oblivion, Sheil'attahn. I found him on the road as I went in after the Stone. The sey'tans were after him, for he did not possess dia'seri; most likely it had been taken from him, or else his corpse I would have seen on the entrance. I slew the demons, but not before they took his left hand. I was told by him when I freed him from his eventual torment that his name was Maréchal Mer'lande-"

"Dawnsmith, what were your instructions? Kabal'ye, Ah'yeal." The warm and earthy voice of the Guardian sliced through Petra's relay. "He could not have survived in the Abyss, Kokaya! It is illogical, and against the Song I composed! Why did you save him?" The bitterness of the Guardian's words stung both him and the Dawnsmith.

Another flaw in my logic. Another fallacy to occur. Is my plan to be ruined as before?! Why Petra? I gave you, alone of the Ah'yeal, the ability to weave both dawnsteel and voidsteel! I gave you the Keys! Your instructions were clearer than the waterfall walls of the Dawn City!

"I saved him, because like him, I once needed saving. Once I was trapped, just as he once was, Sheil'attahn. Or was I another of your illogical happenings? Did not your hand stop the Grey-Cloaks from removing the Dawn City?" Rie'jenn appeared in Petra's grip, his pale-green eyes blazing in anger, as his large, muscular form rose to its full height, easily overshadowing the Guardian.

"Did you not craft me for such a purpose, Profe'shal Al'Vengarion-tar?! Keeper of the Seven Seals of the Lords of the Westernmost Isle, Guardian of the City of the Dawn, Windwalker, He Who Is, even known in the Wood of Worms as Most Among Syllables?!" the Dawnsmith's deep voice boomed. "I take from you the title of Sheil'attahn, as you have forfeited it ere you questioned the saving of one who would have been lost to the Void, forgotten, had I not gone against your infallible logic! The same logic that gave the Grey-Cloaks the power to devise the Doors, and bring about the Sundering!"

The Guardian only raised his right hand out, as Osi'ran warped from a golden rod into a buckler shield, wrapping around his forearm, summoning a ghostly white sword in his left.

"You would wield the Blade of the Dark Sun against me, Guardian? Against I, who is forbidden to wield a sword, as stated by the ancient edicts?"

The normally smiling, servile face of Petra Kokaya was suffused in rage, prepared to strike upon his own creator - when the figure in the cart stirred. Gone was the animosity between the Guardian and the Dawnsmith, as they both dismissed their armaments and made their way to the cart, the Guardian morphing Osi'ran into a glow-lamp which hovered between the two men's heads, giving the sole light in the darkness.

"You're cute." the slumped form uttered in a silky, smooth voice, as the Guardian approached. The figure's short-cut hair was brushed to the side, revealing his forehead, and soft, dark brown eyes gazed - through a set of square, black spectacles - into the Guardian's cold and blue. A devilish, cheshire smile appeared on the figure's unmarred face - the only noticeable wound was on their left arm, where it did not end in a hand that mirrored the right, instead in a healed stump. Surely something can be done to aid such a beautiful, wounded soul as this. Woe to me, were I not as compassionate as I am.

A whisper of wind flowed through the wood, and the Guardian grasped the figure's stump, drawing his gloved hand back as the shimmering white essence of dia'seri bound itself to the man's stump, forming a hand that perfectly mirrored the once-remaining right one. The hand soon formed a fist, as the man known as Maréchal Mer'lande became used to his new appendage.

I give unto you that which you lost, and marred your otherwise perfect, smiling figure.

"Thank you." was the simple, almost sensuous reply of Maréchal. "It's difficult to play the zhon'gorra with one hand - actually, impossible."

The figure's voice alone was enough to wrack the Guardian's normal, soldier-like composure, and the Guardian turned his head to the Dawnsmith. "Petra, take the Stone. Place in a pit you will find a hundred and thirteen paces to the west of here. Do not worry - I drilled the bore there. Fill it with earth once you have placed it therein. Do not fear for this soul you have spared from the tortures of the Void, against my wishes. All is forgiven, Petra." The Dawnsmith left only wordlessly, picking up the cube without difficulty, walking off of the path and into the dark forest, some of the koru'garde going with him.

Profe'shal Al'Vengarion-tar once again sat upon the log, looking upon Maréchal - this new variable to the Guardian's Song - remaining on the cart. "Since you already know of me from Petra's outburst, tell me a bit of yourself, Maréchal." the Guardian smiled in a way he had not for an age.

"I was the famous Trouvère of Hirosfol, at least until the Sundering. . ." the acclaimed composer began, and the Guardian listened with burning intent, as his chest was seared with sympathy.

Week twelve's theme, as a bit of a nod to the recent picking of a new pope, is: Peity. Two weeks, people.

 

[Professor Ven]

Alright. I apologize for my tardiness in doing this, but life has been fairly busy for me as of late, and that, plus my little story I've started, has been keeping me a bit distracted.

Since week eleven received only one submission, Professor Ven wins by default.

Spoiler Show

The once green and beautiful forest was now dark and bare; even as the Guardian sat on a log at the side of the path that wound its way perpetually through the ancient grove, he only pondered, mind riddling away at the same old thoughts.

Once I crafted this world with a steady hand, and I gave them freedom to work as they wished. Good and Evil would work against one another, but ultimately they only canceled each other. Those who worked under Neutrality ruined this creation -too many of them, too many! Those who chose to simply do nothing to better their world, to fuel the fires of their ambition, to embrace their calling destroyed this paradise. I fear this will not be the last time mine hand will be forced to mend such fallacies.

. . . those foolish Grey-Cloaks. I should have stopped them from crafting the Doors - and now, even I cannot remove them; hopefully the manner in which I have hidden them will spare this world from this catastrophe reoccurring. Only the Dawn City was spared, and Kagám keeps it safe, as commanded. I hung all the Grey-Cloaks that were in the Dawn City for all to see, before I went to their infernal Gray Tower, and cast it down - and now I wait here.

Once these trees were vibrant in green and yellow, their boughs bearing fruit for most of the year, until the snows would come. I can still recall the various creatures that inhabited this grove. The flowers here bloomed always on the eve of spring, and dawn of summer. The rivers always flooded when the Water Carrier ascended in spring. . .

The Guardian was draped in sin - nothing of him was different from any other that remained in this realm, save for that his long coat had buttons forged of dia'seri, the strange metal which gave its wearers the ability to manipulate what little light remained in the world - and seven pins, each depicting heraldry upon them, sat upon the coat's collar. His dark leather boots had taken him astride every space, both before and after the Sundering. A rod of gold remained perfectly in the Guardian's gloved grip, as he remained sitting by the wayside.

Osi'ran will keep me company, for now, at least. Barring the rod, I have mine books. Se'Chientz, Tamale Nu'Mink, Sole'attir, give me the strength to return that which was lost - surely your wisdom will aid me in this struggle. Give me once more the power of the wind.

A wide-brimmed hat kept his face in darkness, concealing his hair, though the tell-tale glimmer of blue eyes would often flash from behind silver-rimmed spectacles. Only the shape of the Guardian's face could be made out.

Soon, young Petra will come with the Stone that must be placed. Should he not, then the World is doomed to this same catastrophe; and that does not sit very well with the ending I have in mind for this tale.

Bootsteps echoed through the Grove of the Void, the crunching sound of the path's dirt - glassed by the Sundering - breaking the abyssal silence that the Guardian had been left in. He rose from his sitting position, hand still gripping the golden rod, Osi'ran, gently.

The black-clad troupe that approached ringed around the cart - pulled by the smith with a single hand - were merely illusions. They were another attempt by the Guardian, another failed attempt to halt the apocalypse when it had began. Oh, yes, they appeared human, but if one were to come close to them, and stare into the face of these koru'garde, the onlooker would see only their own face's reflection. And that onlooker's face would remain as the koru'garde's own until another looked upon it.

And so the World was Sundered, and the Void was unleashed. The only thing Voidlings fear is their own reflection, or the Dawn City's walls would have never stopped them, and Petra would, despite his strength, been overwhelmed, if not for my failed koru'garde.

Petra Kokaya wore, as he always had since the Dawn, the red and brown working clothes, red and black veil covering the bottom half of his face - though he removed it as he stopped the cart, and took a few paces to the Guardian, nodding only in silent respect.

"Sheil'attahn, it is as you wish, so far. No trouble or disturbance on the road, save . . ." the Dawnsmith motioned to the cart, where the great cube of Void-Steel sat. A slumped figure, robed in black leaned against the Stone.

"Rie'jenn, and your constructs kept me safe as I traversed Oblivion, Sheil'attahn. I found him on the road as I went in after the Stone. The sey'tans were after him, for he did not possess dia'seri; most likely it had been taken from him, or else his corpse I would have seen on the entrance. I slew the demons, but not before they took his left hand. I was told by him when I freed him from his eventual torment that his name was Maréchal Mer'lande-"

"Dawnsmith, what were your instructions? Kabal'ye, Ah'yeal." The warm and earthy voice of the Guardian sliced through Petra's relay. "He could not have survived in the Abyss, Kokaya! It is illogical, and against the Song I composed! Why did you save him?" The bitterness of the Guardian's words stung both him and the Dawnsmith.

Another flaw in my logic. Another fallacy to occur. Is my plan to be ruined as before?! Why Petra? I gave you, alone of the Ah'yeal, the ability to weave both dawnsteel and voidsteel! I gave you the Keys! Your instructions were clearer than the waterfall walls of the Dawn City!

"I saved him, because like him, I once needed saving. Once I was trapped, just as he once was, Sheil'attahn. Or was I another of your illogical happenings? Did not your hand stop the Grey-Cloaks from removing the Dawn City?" Rie'jenn appeared in Petra's grip, his pale-green eyes blazing in anger, as his large, muscular form rose to its full height, easily overshadowing the Guardian.

"Did you not craft me for such a purpose, Profe'shal Al'Vengarion-tar?! Keeper of the Seven Seals of the Lords of the Westernmost Isle, Guardian of the City of the Dawn, Windwalker, He Who Is, even known in the Wood of Worms as Most Among Syllables?!" the Dawnsmith's deep voice boomed. "I take from you the title of Sheil'attahn, as you have forfeited it ere you questioned the saving of one who would have been lost to the Void, forgotten, had I not gone against your infallible logic! The same logic that gave the Grey-Cloaks the power to devise the Doors, and bring about the Sundering!"

The Guardian only raised his right hand out, as Osi'ran warped from a golden rod into a buckler shield, wrapping around his forearm, summoning a ghostly white sword in his left.

"You would wield the Blade of the Dark Sun against me, Guardian? Against I, who is forbidden to wield a sword, as stated by the ancient edicts?"

The normally smiling, servile face of Petra Kokaya was suffused in rage, prepared to strike upon his own creator - when the figure in the cart stirred. Gone was the animosity between the Guardian and the Dawnsmith, as they both dismissed their armaments and made their way to the cart, the Guardian morphing Osi'ran into a glow-lamp which hovered between the two men's heads, giving the sole light in the darkness.

"You're cute." the slumped form uttered in a silky, smooth voice, as the Guardian approached. The figure's short-cut hair was brushed to the side, revealing his forehead, and soft, dark brown eyes gazed - through a set of square, black spectacles - into the Guardian's cold and blue. A devilish, cheshire smile appeared on the figure's unmarred face - the only noticeable wound was on their left arm, where it did not end in a hand that mirrored the right, instead in a healed stump. Surely something can be done to aid such a beautiful, wounded soul as this. Woe to me, were I not as compassionate as I am.

A whisper of wind flowed through the wood, and the Guardian grasped the figure's stump, drawing his gloved hand back as the shimmering white essence of dia'seri bound itself to the man's stump, forming a hand that perfectly mirrored the once-remaining right one. The hand soon formed a fist, as the man known as Maréchal Mer'lande became used to his new appendage.

I give unto you that which you lost, and marred your otherwise perfect, smiling figure.

"Thank you." was the simple, almost sensuous reply of Maréchal. "It's difficult to play the zhon'gorra with one hand - actually, impossible."

The figure's voice alone was enough to wrack the Guardian's normal, soldier-like composure, and the Guardian turned his head to the Dawnsmith. "Petra, take the Stone. Place in a pit you will find a hundred and thirteen paces to the west of here. Do not worry - I drilled the bore there. Fill it with earth once you have placed it therein. Do not fear for this soul you have spared from the tortures of the Void, against my wishes. All is forgiven, Petra." The Dawnsmith left only wordlessly, picking up the cube without difficulty, walking off of the path and into the dark forest, some of the koru'garde going with him.

Profe'shal Al'Vengarion-tar once again sat upon the log, looking upon Maréchal - this new variable to the Guardian's Song - remaining on the cart. "Since you already know of me from Petra's outburst, tell me a bit of yourself, Maréchal." the Guardian smiled in a way he had not for an age.

"I was the famous Trouvère of Hirosfol, at least until the Sundering. . ." the acclaimed composer began, and the Guardian listened with burning intent, as his chest was seared with sympathy.

Week twelve's theme, as a bit of a nod to the recent picking of a new pope, is: Piety. Two weeks, people.

“Were it so that I could wear the Crown of Thorns again, and bind the Seven Lords to mine hand, and thus return the World to Light – but such a time is naught but a dream, one from which I have long since awakened. I sacrificed all I had to save the World; would you do the same? Would you take your masses of broken, mismatched things to combat the very darkness in the souls of men?"

It was the last of my sacrifices which gave the wind its breath! I am Profe’shal Al’Vengarion-tar, and you will kneel before me, little Servant! I am the Last Guardian, the Keeper of the Seven Seals of the Lords of the Westernmost Isle, Bearer of the Dark Sun’s wrath! Your playthings are little more than toys to those whom I gave life to over the seven and a half thousand years in which I walked upon the earth! Kneel before He Who Is, servanos!"

“Did Petra send you, or did that little blind boy of his? Petra I trust – his protégé, never, for I have never met the youngling your kind name ancient! Does he hold true to his oaths, or is he like the Grey-Cloaks? I cast their Tower down. I will not hesitate to do it again, if time surely has run full circle. You are here, are you not?"

"After all, did the prophecies not state otherwise?" ​

Spoiler Show

 

[OmniChaos]

Two weeks and still only one submission? Seriously?

 

[Professor Ven]

Two weeks and still only one submission? Seriously?

I are disappoint.​

 

[OmniChaos]

Week Twelve's voting thread is up: >>here<<

Week Thirteen's theme is: harmony. Have at it, people.

 

[Kiba]

I'm going to assume the format of how we want to present our character is not limited to a template?

 

[OmniChaos]

No, there is no limit to how your character may be presented, and you may do so however you deem fit.

 

[Professor Ven]

I'm going to assume the format of how we want to present our character is not limited to a template?

Uguuu neeee Kiba-kun will play the game of cookie-crafting too :3

 

[OmniChaos]

Due to a tie, week twelve's is going to be voted on again: >>here<<

The previous vote is null and void, and the thread deleted.

Because of this, the submission period for week thirteen will be extended respectively to a week after this vote.

 

[OmniChaos]

Reeeeaaaaalllly late on this, but week twelve's winner is Ordeith's Rev. Sam Franklin.

I still need more submissions for week thirteen, people. Unless you've forgotten, there still are prizes to be given after the 50th theme, not to mention an eventual award to be given, so hop to it.

 

[Professor Ven]

Reeeeaaaaalllly late on this, but week twelve's winner is Ordeith's Rev. Sam Franklin.

I still need more submissions for week thirteen, people. Unless you've forgotten, there still are prizes to be given after the 50th theme, not to mention an eventual award to be given, so hop to it.

We will make it to 50 in two years heuehue or when KHI turns like 11 or 12

 

[OmniChaos]

I actually intended on jump-starting this, I've just been destracted by Ordeith and my preperation to launch of "The Warlock." When I get home, I'll get something done about this.

 

[OmniChaos]

Okay, people, I'm getting this thing started once again. Since the previous theme fell flat, I'm just going to forget about it and go with something else. Instead, I think we'd go with this for the theme: Life.

Capture and express it however you see fit, with any interpretation you please.