A member of the Cynopterid race
I was just another nobody, not part of the clique, not one of the Heathers, just a nameless, faceless nobody. Then, I died.
And became somebody.
Brief bio of a space intel officer
30 in progress
Marla (Fight Club) - as the salesperson whose species reproduces by cloning or similar technology.
PC generated by random generator
An unfortunate man and his canine companion
A favored son of the Prussian nobility, and a Knight Errant of the Restored Order of the Temple
The eldest of six sisters and the heir apparent of the Argyle-Blakes, and an investigator for the Royal Theosophical Society
Immortality can be had, but for a cost. Some are willing to pay this price, some are willing to make others pay the price. So long as there is gold in my hand I care not.
Madness lingers there, in the broken corners of his mind.
She left me, I couldn't deal with it. I sat there with the barrel of the gun in my mouth for a long time before I pulled the trigger.
(Graphic Warning: Not for delicate eyes)
My father is slain. His house is broken. His sword is shattered, and his axe has been rent apart. But his blood lives on.
I once sought vengeance, I have since been consumed by vengeance and that is that is left of who I was
It's hiding in the dark, it's teeth are razor sharp
There's no escape for me, it wants my soul, it wants my heart
No one can hear me scream, maybe it's just a dream
Maybe it's inside of me, stop this monster
Skillet ~ Monster
Tales grow in the telling and heroes grow in stature, even the tiniest can stand tall among their own.
Crazy old woman, selling pieces of bone and fake charms. The fact that the villagers even tolerate the old eye-roller hag demonstrates a lack of piety to the Faith.
Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.
The power of the mind and of magic defies your pathetic attempts to understand them, submit and you will be spared
Orn himself was a past peasant hero and champion, in a largely rural and agricultural area, who dared to stand up to a conquering force, and inspire his fellows to do the same.
No high school teens who turn out to be wonder-pilots here.
Wytchwolde-Under-Ash, once a great Thorpe, was razed to the ground by the ruthless, and truth told more than slightly deranged, Porcelain Princess and her henchmen, the Purifiers. When the flames had at last subsided, and a kaleidoscope of swirling, dull-gray ash choked the sky, nine hundred acres of old growth iron spruce, black larch and weeping birch, was burned to utter cinders, along with the entire coven of witches comprising the Sisterhood of the Silver Teat.
Now, centuries later, the forests are somewhat re-grown, and the town of Foolswater stands where Wytchwolde-Under-Ash once did. It is said that even to this day, one can still find ashes in the otherwise potable well-water of this village. Once a year during the Winter Solstice, the “Ash-Wind” comes to Foolswater, a suffocating black cloud that passes quickly but leaves dead birds and animals in its wake, darkening the trees, and staining the sky with black snow. The inhabitants of the village know better than to be caught outside during the day-long Ash-Wind. Everyone is locked snugly inside, singing old hymns that curse and re-curse the burned witches who once called this place home.