Name: Roshaun Serelt Kellesheet
Nicknames (If Any): None. Call him Rosh, Shaun, Osha, or any variant thereof, and he will smack you over the head with a rock. Repeatedly.
Age: 107
Gender: Male
Species: Visek Elf
Abilities: First and foremost, Roshaun considers himself a mage. He is proficient in Arcane and Earth magic, and makes his living by his sorcery. While more complicated spells require incantations or complete rituals, he’s made many of his various abilities reflexive, particularly the defensive ones.
Roshaun is also a fairly accomplished potter, mostly because his first summon was, and continues to be, incredibly fussy (something that irritates him to no end). If he couldn’t make a living selling enchanted materials, he’d certainly be able to do it selling his ceramics.
Appearance: Roshaun stands at 6’3”, and typically looks like he’s just been dunked in a bucket of white paint, both in color and in expression. He’s pale, with silvery hair and ice-blue eyes, and he surveys everything with a look of faint disapproval. Like most elves, he’s graceful, although his physical strength is… lacking, to say the least.
Personality: Roshaun is proud, stubborn, and just a little lazy. When given the opportunity, he’ll usually foist most ordinary tasks off on any appropriate elementals he’s summoned. Of course, if somebody suggests this is because he couldn’t do the job in question, he’ll throw himself at it and refuse any and all help until it’s done or he’s exhausted himself so much he can’t put up any sort of fight if someone else steps in. Really, that’s his approach to anything he feels is important, although he might be convinced to sleep and eat if it’s something that should take more than a day or two. Maybe. He’s also a natural magician not just in aptitude, but in temperament, and he’ll typically take the chance to learn about another kind of magic, or to add another trick to his arsenal in the schools he’s practiced in, if given the chance.
Roleplay Sample:
The Phaeron nodded. "Thank you, Author." He took another breath, then, hesitantly, put the cards together.
For a moment, there was nothing. The Phaeron wasn't sure whether to expect physical or mental torment. He quickly discovered that the Strife didn't bother making choices like that.
It was as if he was exploding. Everything within him fighting everything else, pushing everything away, trying to be alone, to be victorious, to be the best. It felt like it was taking every ounce of will, every tiny shred of control to keep himself from bursting into fragments of blood and flesh and bone, splattering the walls and his friends with tiny pieces of his organs. He fought to keep it under control, to keep it from consuming him- And that was when the other splitting started.
He began to hear shouting, and first, the voice was the Wanderer's. He heard him screaming at him, insults, abuses, and reminders of his own guilt. He started shouting back, or, well, he thought he did. The Wanderer's voice grew louder, and he started yelling threats among his reminders of the hideous crimes the Phaeron had committed. The Phaeron raised his in response, and so it continued, on and on and on, as the Phaeron felt his body continue to try and shred itself. Then, finally, he screamed at the Wanderer to leave, to never return, to die some kind of horrible death. The Wanderer's voice went silent, and it felt like something, some connection, had shattered. The Phaeron realized what was going on, and shouted, begged him to come back, but it was too late. The Wanderer was gone.
Then the Dragon began to speak. This time, the Phaeron tried not to reply. He tried to drown him out with the pain, but the Dragon's voice seemed to drill into his skull, refusing to be silenced, each word painfully calling back some failure, some inadequacy on his part. Finally, he couldn't take it any more, and he started shouting at him too, and again, their voices grew louder and louder, until the Dragon, too, was rejected.
This time, there was no time to think on what had happened. This time, it was the Author. He started quietly, disappointedly. It was not deeds that were the weapons this time, but rather, fragments of being. Slowly, the Author's voice began to deconstruct every last flaw, every fault in the Phaeron's being. The Phaeron begged him to stop, thought he felt himself fall to his knees, hoping the Author would say something, anything other than this steady condemnation. He did not.
The Phaeron continued to plead, but the Author just spoke and spoke and spoke. When at last he stopped, the words were simple. “Goodbye, Phaeron. We won’t meet again.” His voice faded as well, and the Phaeron felt utterly alone.
For a moment, everything remained as it was. Then, the pain seemed to double- no, triple- no quadruple- no- the Phaeron stopped being able to think of words. The pain was too intense. However, he was still able to hear, and what he heard, quiet at first, but growing slowly louder and louder and louder, were the voices of those he cared about, those he had rejected or been rejected by, begging him, asking that he save them, that he help them, that he raise them from their despair. He tried. Despite the agony, he tried to call out to them, to get them to talk to him, but their voices drowned one another out, and then the screams began. It sounded like a slaughter, like somebody was killing them all, and he tried to stop it, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, because of the pain, the pain, the pain!
For the last time, a voice cut through the pain. “You can save them. But you have to die.” It might have been because he was willing to do anything to get them back. It might have been because he just wanted the pain to end. Whatever the reason, the Phaeron accepted the offer in a heartbeat. A spear plunged through his chest, and he heard what seemed to be a wail of relief coming from the throats of a thousand, a million, an entire planet of people. And then, slowly, the pain began to fade, and tears began to fall down his cheeks.
Nicknames (If Any): None. Call him Rosh, Shaun, Osha, or any variant thereof, and he will smack you over the head with a rock. Repeatedly.
Age: 107
Gender: Male
Species: Visek Elf
Abilities: First and foremost, Roshaun considers himself a mage. He is proficient in Arcane and Earth magic, and makes his living by his sorcery. While more complicated spells require incantations or complete rituals, he’s made many of his various abilities reflexive, particularly the defensive ones.
Roshaun is also a fairly accomplished potter, mostly because his first summon was, and continues to be, incredibly fussy (something that irritates him to no end). If he couldn’t make a living selling enchanted materials, he’d certainly be able to do it selling his ceramics.
Appearance: Roshaun stands at 6’3”, and typically looks like he’s just been dunked in a bucket of white paint, both in color and in expression. He’s pale, with silvery hair and ice-blue eyes, and he surveys everything with a look of faint disapproval. Like most elves, he’s graceful, although his physical strength is… lacking, to say the least.
Personality: Roshaun is proud, stubborn, and just a little lazy. When given the opportunity, he’ll usually foist most ordinary tasks off on any appropriate elementals he’s summoned. Of course, if somebody suggests this is because he couldn’t do the job in question, he’ll throw himself at it and refuse any and all help until it’s done or he’s exhausted himself so much he can’t put up any sort of fight if someone else steps in. Really, that’s his approach to anything he feels is important, although he might be convinced to sleep and eat if it’s something that should take more than a day or two. Maybe. He’s also a natural magician not just in aptitude, but in temperament, and he’ll typically take the chance to learn about another kind of magic, or to add another trick to his arsenal in the schools he’s practiced in, if given the chance.
Roleplay Sample:
The Phaeron nodded. "Thank you, Author." He took another breath, then, hesitantly, put the cards together.
For a moment, there was nothing. The Phaeron wasn't sure whether to expect physical or mental torment. He quickly discovered that the Strife didn't bother making choices like that.
It was as if he was exploding. Everything within him fighting everything else, pushing everything away, trying to be alone, to be victorious, to be the best. It felt like it was taking every ounce of will, every tiny shred of control to keep himself from bursting into fragments of blood and flesh and bone, splattering the walls and his friends with tiny pieces of his organs. He fought to keep it under control, to keep it from consuming him- And that was when the other splitting started.
He began to hear shouting, and first, the voice was the Wanderer's. He heard him screaming at him, insults, abuses, and reminders of his own guilt. He started shouting back, or, well, he thought he did. The Wanderer's voice grew louder, and he started yelling threats among his reminders of the hideous crimes the Phaeron had committed. The Phaeron raised his in response, and so it continued, on and on and on, as the Phaeron felt his body continue to try and shred itself. Then, finally, he screamed at the Wanderer to leave, to never return, to die some kind of horrible death. The Wanderer's voice went silent, and it felt like something, some connection, had shattered. The Phaeron realized what was going on, and shouted, begged him to come back, but it was too late. The Wanderer was gone.
Then the Dragon began to speak. This time, the Phaeron tried not to reply. He tried to drown him out with the pain, but the Dragon's voice seemed to drill into his skull, refusing to be silenced, each word painfully calling back some failure, some inadequacy on his part. Finally, he couldn't take it any more, and he started shouting at him too, and again, their voices grew louder and louder, until the Dragon, too, was rejected.
This time, there was no time to think on what had happened. This time, it was the Author. He started quietly, disappointedly. It was not deeds that were the weapons this time, but rather, fragments of being. Slowly, the Author's voice began to deconstruct every last flaw, every fault in the Phaeron's being. The Phaeron begged him to stop, thought he felt himself fall to his knees, hoping the Author would say something, anything other than this steady condemnation. He did not.
The Phaeron continued to plead, but the Author just spoke and spoke and spoke. When at last he stopped, the words were simple. “Goodbye, Phaeron. We won’t meet again.” His voice faded as well, and the Phaeron felt utterly alone.
For a moment, everything remained as it was. Then, the pain seemed to double- no, triple- no quadruple- no- the Phaeron stopped being able to think of words. The pain was too intense. However, he was still able to hear, and what he heard, quiet at first, but growing slowly louder and louder and louder, were the voices of those he cared about, those he had rejected or been rejected by, begging him, asking that he save them, that he help them, that he raise them from their despair. He tried. Despite the agony, he tried to call out to them, to get them to talk to him, but their voices drowned one another out, and then the screams began. It sounded like a slaughter, like somebody was killing them all, and he tried to stop it, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, because of the pain, the pain, the pain!
For the last time, a voice cut through the pain. “You can save them. But you have to die.” It might have been because he was willing to do anything to get them back. It might have been because he just wanted the pain to end. Whatever the reason, the Phaeron accepted the offer in a heartbeat. A spear plunged through his chest, and he heard what seemed to be a wail of relief coming from the throats of a thousand, a million, an entire planet of people. And then, slowly, the pain began to fade, and tears began to fall down his cheeks.
