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WalkingWarrior last won the day on November 9 2015

WalkingWarrior had the most liked content!

About WalkingWarrior

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  • Birthday 09/26/1988

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  • Gender
  • Location
    Washington State
  • Interests
    Gaming, reading, writing. I love worldbuilding. It's one of my favorite things to engage in and I've been told I'm quite good at it. Feel free to hit me up for anything, anytime.
  • Occupation
    Security guard.

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  1. His cheeks went red as she drew near and touched him. He wasn't entirely foreign to intimacy, but having someone come so close wearing so little was jarring, at the very least. And if he were being honest, Eulalia was not entirely unattractive. He swallowed a few times and regained his composure, forcing himself to listen more to her questions than to his mental alarms. "I slept through it. The dreams were turbulent, aye, but only dreams." He had never heard of such things as premonitions, and never had lent much weight to his dreams. When she withdrew to collect the cards he bowed his head and folded his arms over his chest. "I remember a one-armed man... and a woman with red hair. And fire. Something on fire." He rubbed his arm again, eyes closing as he reached for what he'd pushed away. "A crystal... and when I touched it my arm caught fire, too," he murmured. "I... I think I cut if off, or tried to, but then I woke." How strange. The more he focused on the dream, the more it all came into focus. Before they had just faded and were impossible to grasp, but this one seemed almost eager to be revisited, reexamined. He looked up at her and tilted his head a little. "Are you using the cards to see if the dream meant anything?" he asked, stepping over next to her to peer down at the deck as her hands moved. He couldn't discern much, but the number 13 kept on jumping out to his keen vision. Strange yet again. Thirteen meant nothing to him.
  2. It took Red a long time to fall asleep, his mind too full of questions and curiosity about what was coming. He wanted to know what he would be able to do, what kind of power would come to him. He wanted to know about Bran the Raven and her horse and her máthair and Eulalia herself. Each question was examined, acknowledged, and set aside for later--if it were to be asked at all. Sleep did claim him eventually, but it was barely restful. He dreamed of numbers and shapes, signs and faces. He saw an old man with one arm, a dark woman with red hair, a crystal wreathed in blue fire. He saw the fire spread. It touched his arm, and his skin caught fire like dry paper. He felt something heavy in his other hand and saw a sword clutched tight in his fist. Without hesitation he lifted the blade and brought it down on his burning limb. He woke with a start, eyes opening, right hand clutching his left arm at the elbow. He stood without glancing at his would-be teacher, standing and stepping into the washroom. He splashed his face with cold water, waking himself up entirely, and automatically stripped off his leather jerkin and the shirt beneath to clean his body. He scrubbed without thinking about it, mentally clutching the shreds of his dream. Blue fire. Such a thing didn't exist to his knowledge. He splashed more water on his face and through his short-cropped hair and let it go. Dreams were dreams. Nothing more. He pulled his shirt back on and picked up the leather vest which he draped over one shoulder as he stepped out of the bathroom. "Lady Eulalia?" he asked softly, wary of waking her. He was accustomed to waking up much earlier than other people typically were, after all.
  3. Every answer only led to more questions. Red grinned to himself as he held his boot in both hands, thumbing the worn, hardened leather. There was so much more than he had even imagined. And better yet, this made sense to him. There seemed to be rules to it--vague ones, but rules all the same. "If this ends with me befriending a falcon who can read the... what was it? The currents of fate, you called them? Either way--should that come to pass I'll not have a complaint." He set the shoe down and swung his legs up to lay on the bed, hands folded over his stomach as he looked at the ceiling above. "So the cards are integral, then. Not a normal playing deck." The questions he had were quelled. He would find out soon enough, and seeing it would be more educational than being told. One thing, though, did drift to the forefront of his mind as his eyes closed. "Is máthair another word for mother?"
  4. "You're a strange sort, Lady Eulalia." He said it with no venom. If anything he sounded like he was full of wonder and awe. He turned to slip the bag beneath his pillow as told. The cards inside meant nothing to him yet. He'd seen playing cards before, even knew how to shuffle and play a couple of games, though he'd never seen a card labeled as 'the Fool' before. He stood to retrieve his bow and quiver, hanging them from the foot post of his bed before he sat again to start tugging his boots off. "What kind of magic is it that you practice? I've never heard of magic that relies on crows and cards before. Though, all told, I am at best ignorant of what is and is not magic. My home village, whatever its name, had little books to work by."
  5. He followed her up in silence, once more left to ponder her mysterious words. He didn't know anything about names, really. Just that he had good eyesight and was rather small for most men his age. Was that perhaps what she meant? That names were meant to be tailored to the person, rather than given arbitrarily? That must have been it, he realized. Names had power, then. The power of self. He was so engrossed in his realization and the implications that he hardly noticed the offer until an awkwardly long pause. He took them quickly and sat down on the unattended bed to tug the bag open and peer inside. Cards? Strange. "What does Eulalia mean? Or rather, why is it your name?" he asked, looking up at her as he closed the bag and held it in both hands. "Or ought I keep such questions to myself for now?"
  6. A chill ran down his spine at her words. No truly nameless places? The concept baffled him. He turned the coins over in his hand as he watched her lead the horse away, transfixed for a moment. He wondered if she knew anything about his name. Red took a deep breath and shook off the confusion--excitement?--and made his way back into the pub, his stride long and eager. He felt a little detatched as he paid the barkeep for the room and went upstairs to check it, assessing the plain beds and simple bathroom. It had been months, he realized with a strange sense of surprise, since he'd slept under a proper roof. He set aside his bow and quiver and returned back outside to the stables to let the woman know. "I've paid and ensured the room's there," he told her, arms loosely folded as he approached her and the horse. "We'll be set in fair comfort. It occurs to me, though, that I never told you my name, nor you yours. Seeing as how I'm the one asking of you, s'only right to introduce myself. I'm Redtail, though I usually go by Red. Yes, if you were wondering. Like the bird." At mention of birds he glanced around for Bran, wary and curious of the raven.
  7. A lot of people seem to be leaning toward this religious thing, which is well and good, but I say why fabricate a religious schism out of the present religion when you could form a confusing and interesting schism out of the religions of decades prior? Aka, time fuckery. The ultimate solution when you wanna cause widespread distortion.
  8. WalkingWarrior


    Name: Tasus, though that's just the most recent Alias: Dod, Rozlad, Morte, Thora Age: 300+ years (appears no older than 30) Height: 5'10" Weight: 175 lbs. Hair: Blonde Eyes: Red Build: Broad and muscular DOB: Long forgotten Birthplace: Long forgotten Lineage: Guess what History Tasus can recall most of the last 320 years of his past. The smaller things blur together, and he's given up on calendars altogether, but major events and individual dates are easy enough to recall. Beyond that, though, things grow hazy. He supposes it's because that's simply all his brain can handle. As time goes on, assuming he doesn't accidentally age out, die, or disappear, he assumes that memories of the oldest times will continue to fade. Furthermore, Tasus is not originally from this world. He's not particularly sure when he came to it, since that extends back beyond his recollection, but he's at least reasonably certain that this is not where he started. This is mostly because he's never met anyone like himself during his travels, and he has traveled extensively across both Terrenus and Genesaris. Thanks to this broad experience, however, he often forgets where he is, what the laws are, who the ruler is, or in extreme cases why he is where he is. Personality Generally quiet and reserved, Tasus has a habit of talking at length and in colorful metaphor when spoken to. He has a very cynical outlook on life and most things in it, but a silent sort of hope for what could be. He has fairly vast knowledge, but he's aware of what he doesn't know, and is generally open to new information. Despite his true age he stays on top of most modern trends and styles, regardless of how much sense he thinks they make. He has a morbid sort of fascination with death and what it means to different people and cultures. This can lead to him being unintentionally callous or dismissive of death and its consequences, since he views it as less of a tragedy and more like the next step down a long road. This is also in no small part thanks to the fact that Tasus seems to be functionally immortal. His powers, when mishandled, can kill him, but generally fatal injuries are more of a minor inconvenience for him. His invulnerability lends him a certain recklessness as well, a lack of fear or concern for his own personal safety. Often he's more annoyed by getting his clothes bloody than he is upset about being injured. Gear A crimson cape with attached hood. Yeah, call it stupid, he'll agree, but he'll also be warm tonight. A metal gauntlet studded with several crystals. They aren't gemstones, they're crystals. What's the difference, you ask? Shut up. A sword forged out of entirely white, matte metal. Does not require sharpening. Rarely drawn. A broken pocketwatch. He'd explain but you probably wouldn't get the joke. A small leather journal in which he jots down important names and dates in the event that he forgets. Competencies Expert swordsman. Expert hand to hand combatant. Mastery over a specialized form of time magic, which he calls Chronomancy. Apparently immortal. Chronomancy A specialized form of time magic that allows Tasus to travel through time in a small, localized space. Doing so is dangerous, and the further he travels the more he distorts reality around himself. Additionally, if he travels too far or too deeply he runs the risk of 'aging out'. Generally for every hour he goes back in time, or every half hour he goes forward, his body is forcibly aged by a full year. When he returns to normal time he has to gather this 'false aging' and push it out of his personal timestream, which is not a simple concept or process. The more he uses Chronomancy this way, the more time he's forced to retain. As such he only rarely utilizes his magic in that method, and instead mostly relies on the secondary functions. Those include being able to heal his wounds by simply reversing the damage. This process is not instantaneous and requires intense focus, as well as a minor 'time toll'. The more severe an injury, the more 'time' it takes to heal, typically between minutes and hours. The worst sorts, like amputations or organ regeneration, add weeks. To his knowledge this is why he is immortal; no single injury has been able to add enough damage to force him to 'time out' and die. If he refrains from using his powers or sustaining injuries for a long period of time then he can begin to set aside his 'aged time' again, through meditation and carefully focused intent. If you don't get how this works, that's okay. Time is insane and weird like that. Don't sweat it.
  9. Duty? Since when had ravens had any duty but to caw and scavenge? It was strange to him to think of a crow with duty, at least at first, but the more he mused over it the more he thought it could make sense. They were devilishly intelligent animals, after all. He didn't say anything as she appraised him--there had to be way for her to know he had potential, he realized, even if he couldn't imagine how. "Direction?" he repeated under his breath, one eyebrow arching. Nothing about this woman made sense. Even her voice confused him, half-song and half-honey. But then, this was what he'd been looking for. Someone different, someone with clear magic, someone who could teach him. Excitement reared in his heart as he turned. "The pub here--they have an inn above and a stable. I haven't stayed there, but I'm led to understand it's passable in both regards." He started to lead her there, but his step faltered when she asked about his home. "Far away," he answered at first, quiet and curt, but he sighed a heartbeat later, telling himself to show more kindness to someone who'd spend their time on his furthering. "A tiny village, many miles from here. Only farmers and hunters ever visit. To my knowledge it has no name."
  10. Red looked up in no small amount of surprise as a raven--and a large one, at that--landed right next to him and cawed noisily. He blinked at the noisy bird, then scowled when it didn't just fly away. "You're a noisy one," he murmured, voice low. He made to gently shoo the bird, but his attention was caught by the woman who had approached on horseback. At first he simply thought the horse was large, but he realized the woman that dismounted was just as large in her own right. Taller than he was, by at least a foot. The more he looked the more he realized there was nothing average about the woman. He stood to greet her, hands on his belt. All the while his expression hadn't changed from a slightly perplexed scowl. "Aye, that's me." He looked back to the raven, then up at her again. "How'd you train that bird?"
  11. Small group for this, 1 or 2 preferred, but 3 at most. PM me with any questions! All around the city, on a dozen different public boards, a single notice had been posted, often in the center or in places where the eye would naturally be drawn to such a notice. It was written on deliberately aged-looking parchment, with some artful folds and cuts worked into the edges. Any real artist could tell it was falsely aged, the color from coffee and the wear-and-tear far too new to be real, but that was more or less the point. Each poster had a motif beneath the words, carefully applied around the lettering, which resembled a sun with multiple radiating lines. The same motif repeated itself in the inked words, each bullet point a small sunburst. ¤ ATTENTION ¤ Do you have need of an artist? Do you want to give a gift that will be meaningful and last for as long as your love will? Do you just need a pass but the agency in question has been too stubborn for your liking? SEARCH NO MORE! Simply come to the Skywater Pub and inquire after 'Sunny, Artist for Hire!' ¤ Portraits ¤ Landscapes ¤ Family Images¤ ¤ Poetry ¤ Signatures (Official and Otherwise) ¤ Base rate of 40 silver pieces, with addt'l silver pending size and complexity of project First come, first serve! Sunny stepped back from the last of the posters, wiping her forehead with one arm, twirling the hammer in her free hand. "Lovely," she murmured to herself, smirking her most winning smirk in preparation to convince the uncertain to part with their coin. It was what she was best at, be it by legitimate business or less conventional means. And this... well, if she were being truly honest, it blurred the lines between the two at best. In truth, it was little more than a forgery service for the less savvy criminals or the less fortunate civilians, a means by which tickets could be 'forgiven' by the courts, so to speak. The wording was meant to be subtle but plain; come to me if you want a certificate forged. It won't be cheap. Come alone. She spun the hammer again and turned on her heel, whistling as she walked the familiar path back to the pub where she did her business. Sunny was a slight figure, slim and small, and her step was light and quiet. The tunic she wore under a light leather vest had both sleeves rolled to the elbow, the better to deal with Tia's copious amounts of steam. A simple rope belt cinched her pants around her hips. Her blonde hair was braided back behind her head, mostly obscuring the dark mark that stretched from the base of her skull to the nape of her neck. Her eyes were almond-shaped and quick and clever, colored golden, like the edge of a sunrise. The Airwater wasn't a very new place, or a very clean one, but it also wasn't filthy or ramshackle. The proprietor, a rotund man named Gleeson who'd once flown merchant airships, had been suspicious of Sunny at first, but after she'd given him a portion of her take he'd changed his tune. He still didn't like it, of course, but Sunny couldn't care less about that. Gleeson could huff and scowl and mutter all he liked, at the end of the day he still took her coin and played dumb to the handful of guards who ever came looking for her. Gleeson looked up as she came in and planted his hands on the counter, thick nails digging into the worn wood. "So you didn't get nicked yet?" "No, much to your chagrin, I'm sure. I've just hung a fresh set of posters." He turned his head and spat on the floor. "I'm tired of hostin' your motley crew of miscreants day in and day out, Sunny. I'm tryin' to run a reputable pub here." "Is that why your food is almost always burnt?" she shot back, arching an eyebrow. His expression soured further, and she sighed as she reached over the counter to lay her hands on his. "Glee, my friend, come now. Reputable or not, you'd still get a rougher sort of client in a place like this. It isn't me, it's just the location. Besides," she slid her hands back and propped them on her hips instead. "Besides, criminals frequent even the nicest bars. How do you think most of the government pays its way?" "Not by bloody forgery!" he hissed back, but kept his voice low by necessity. The door had just swung open to admit another customer, and he shook his head as he moved down the bar to help them. Sunny just grinned at his back and leaned over the bar, nearly climbing over it to retrieve a fresh bowl of nuts. She sat back and helped herself to a handful, leaning one elbow on the bar, her eyes far away as she pondered what the day might bring. She paid little attention to the other patron, her mind all at once far away from the bar and her profession. She half wished someone would actually request a painting again. For all her defending it, she wasn't entirely proud of her work. To paint a person, or a setting again... she sighed and brushed the thought away, focusing her eyes on the door, ready for whatever might come through.
  12. Red's hand smoothed nervously along the bone grip of the knife at his belt. It was the only real outward sign of anxiety--otherwise the man was still, watchful, and quiet. The bone grip was comforting in its own macabre way, a reminder of the life he had left behind, a reminder of his roots. A trophy of his first kill. You'll be a fine man someday, his father had told him as they cleaned and skinned and cut the carcass. His eyes closed briefly as he forced the memories of his pa back down where they belonged, in the murk and mud of the past, and reached for the nearly untouched cup of ale that sat in front of him. He took a sip, but only a sip, the stuff thin and watery to his tastes. He disliked getting drunk but getting there off this stuff would empty what coin he had, and even then he doubted it would get him much more than buzzed. It was another reminder of home, and he swore softly under his breath before he stood and set some coin on the table. He had no desire to remain in the pub any longer. It was a fool's errand anyway, this whole quest of his. He had wandered far, picked a direction and walked regardless of road or forest or bog, until nearly a full month had passed and he was sure he wouldn't be close enough to home to offend his ancestors. Then, to be safe, he went two weeks more. And now another month had come and gone, traveling through a small network of towns and villages that he was told were all several miles shy of a bigger city called Casper. He had wondered at the notion of a place bigger than the town he was in, wondered and been afraid, but now he was beginning to think that the only way he'd ever find a teacher was to brave the much larger city. He sat at the edge of a fountain not too far from the pub, fondling his knife again. Somehow the thought was incredibly daunting--even here in what he'd been told was a small town, the people gave him strange looks. Dirty clothes, a strange accent, little coin--he supposed he was as different as could be to them. And desperate for a magical teacher, too! He sighed and rubbed his face with his free hand, eyes closed, trying to decide if he should quit on the entire venture here and now. He could probably beg his way back into his family's good graces, if he so desired. Or else make his own way by hunting and teaching others how to live off the land. He stayed that way for a while, eyes closed and hand at his forehead, thinking through all the options that he could.
  13. Eulalia? That doesn't happen to come from those old Brian Jaques Redwall novels, does it? If so, excellent. If not, I recommend them. That actually sounds pretty much exactly like what Red'd need to get himself started. Someone to help guide him to the right path, rather than someone to show him the one they've already used. And, admittedly, pending how this all goes it'd be very interesting if he ended up using the arcana himself. An arrow imbued with the Tower, for instance. Yikes. I'm for it, though, this feels right.
  14. I like that outlook, I'll admit. The dichotomy of magic is difficult at best to discern, and even a healer with bad intent can do some major damage. Very very interesting. Red would definitely have a hard time seeing the grey in all of it. Go ahead and send me what you've got, I'm interested in learning more even if Redtail'd be more reluctant. Throwing him into it headlong would be very interesting.
  15. @supernal I don't think Red would be right for a vigilante group, but hit me up anyway. I've got another character I'm revising who would be good for that. @Twitterpated Gotcha. Is 'dark arts' in this case just a reference to all types of magic, or specifically things like blood magic, necromancy, etc.? It was my mistake to assume the latter right off the bat, I forget that there's about a billion interpretations of magic and how it all works.
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