Post by blacknoise on Jan 16, 2016 6:50:13 GMT
Clink.
Clink..
Clink...
Layer upon layer of steel plates smacked and rang against each other with each step. The great warrior carried himself with the manner of one used to fighting, and well accustomed to movement within heavy armor. In the sweltering summer sun, the thick, full body armor and heavy coats would burn a lesser man alive with heat. However, the masked fighter barely noticed it.
His name was Jon, what he was and how long he had lived were mysteries to him that he chose not to dwell on. HHe knew what his purpose was, and that's all that mattered. The last of his religion, he dedicated the remainder of his life to carrying out justice and the spread of his demanding cult. Standing at just over 6'5 and carrying a great, slightly curved sword in a black case across his back, intimidating was an understatement in describing this man.
The last thing he remember was waking up in a steel, underground chamber surrounded by books in hundreds of languages he could not understand. However, out of all of them, he found one he was able to decipher. From that book, he dedicated his life, choosing to become a warrior of justice who fought off the creatures or the night. Human, or monster, it mattered little. If they stalked the night for victims, then they would find their end at his blade.
From the words of travellers, he heard that the greatest, most powerful creatures of darkness found their home in Etirath. Therefore, he would need to visit this dark kingdom and rid it of evil. Door to door, he would go anywhere necessary to carry out his noble goal. Gently feeling for the symbols that hung from necklaces inside his robes, he found solace in reminding himself once more of his mission.
And so he walked, ready for battle.
As he walked, he sang.
"And a hey-ho, he's ploughing a troll!
The gods only know how the key fits the hole.
A cavernous cave for his puny old pole.
And a hey-ho, he's ploughing a troll!"
Removing his mask, the 'man' spoke in a voice so high pitched an obnoxious, it would make even the most stoic of warriors burst into laughter. Coupled with his interesting manner of speaking and his 110% seriousness.
"Wonderful day gentleguardsmen! Might I be permitted entrance into your positively beautiful city?"
And so, the story of Jon, Vampire hunter, begins.Jon is far older than he'd ever let on, and much older than even he knows. He stopped recording his age a long time ago. His fighting style is simple, typical fencing which he has refined over his lifetime. He is capable of only one magical ability, signs. By utilizing magical runes and symbols imbued with power, he can cast simple spells with blinding speed and little cost to himself. At the price of their speed, these signs are relatively weak in comparison to the complex runes and spells utilized by wizards and sorceresses.
But his abilities are not to be discredited because of their simplicity. His signs are as follows: complex movement of his fingers on one hand and he can summon a blast of force, a seal from which to trap his opponent, a shield to protect from the quick flashes of magic from his enemies, and a quick sign that gives him temporary sight through magic.
His sword is made from the light metal of a meteorite, overlaid with silver. The silver is constantly relaid and recast after every battle, as a result of the metal's inherent weakness. However, the meteorite is never touched, its strength going past anything steel, even enchanted steel, could ever achieve.
In regards to his personality, his lighthearted demeanor and silly manner of speaking is entirely real. Worry-free, extremely kind, and exceedingly passionate, Jon is completely different than most monster hunters and knights. Despite being faceless, he is able to communicate by forcibly ripping his face open to open his mouth and talk. This process is referred to by Jon, in his own words "My reminder to never stop speaking once I've begun! HAHAHAHA!"
His high voice, however, is a put on meant to disarm people to his slightly frightening physical appearance. His true voice is incredibly deep, but on account of thinking it too serious, he'll never speak in it. Unfortunately, some people can mistake his voice for sarcasm even when he is completely serious. But, as a self proclaimed knight, he follows the rules of chivalry without deviation, along with his own personal creed. Among which is a rule to never be sarcastic, but to always joke.
A tale
The armored warrior sweated profusely beneath the thick layers of armor and cloth. Tapping a shopkeeper on the shoulder, he inquired in an exceptionally high pitched voice.
"Pardon me sir! Might you happen to possess the knowledge of where the SCUM and VILLIANY of this good township make rest?"
The shopkeeper, naturally confused by the loud and strange request, stood stunned momentarily. However, shaking himself, he attempted to answer the heavily armed man in the most informative manner he could.
"Well, there be this ol' bar down tha street that most good folk avoid, ye'd do well to avoid it too, if ye kin what's good for ye."
Nodding his head, the warrior responded kindly.
"Many thanks my most helpful shopkeeper, but I possess a quest of utmost importance that I would be loath to ever deviate from. Fare thee well!"
BAM
The door to the bar slammed open as the warrior entered. Heads turned, but only for a moment before turning away, assuming him to be nothing more than a well armed brigand. Sitting down at a table, the warrior ordered a shot of whiskey and slammed his ornate blade on the table. Downing the shot, he called out a challenge in a voice higher than meadowlark struck in the crotch.
"FILTHY VAGABONDS and VILLAINOUS MAGGOTS alike! I have here a challenge which I believe NONE of you will be physically able to best! To the man who beats me in an arm wrestling contest, I give my blade! To the loser goes my tab!"
With a burst of laughter, men and women alike began rounding the warrior. With a firm grasp of palms and a countdown, the first contestant went down faster than the eye could see. The warrior won. A second challenger, much larger than the last, tried his luck and bought the warrior a drink. A countdown, a flash, and he was bested. The warrior won once more. Again another man, again another shot, and again the warrior won. On and on they went, hoping the warrior lost skill as he drank more and more.
Minutes turned to hours, and hours turned to all day, and all day stretched deep into the night. All the while, the warrior had not stopped talking.
Now late, the bar empty, and the warrior sat alone, singing.
"Oh what's wrong with bein', what's wrong with bein', what's wrong with bein' CONFIDAAAAAANT!
One final contestant sat down, a skinny man in a dark cloak, and offered out his hand. A drunken countdown, a flash, and so it happened.
The warrior lost.
The singing stopped, the bartender stopped cleaning up, and the last contestant chuckled softly to himself. Slowly, the bartender slipped out, ducking away into the back room so that he might avoid what ensued. Standing, the stranger remarked.
"So, I suppose that blade belongs to me now, ye?"
Quick as a flash, the blade had been drawn from its sheath and sliced upwards at the stranger. Just as quick, the stranger leapt back, but not fast enough to keep his cloak from being caught. Long nails, thick sinew across rippling muscles, and two long fangs poking through his mouth accented the stranger. A Vampyre, a child of Ethale. Laughing, the Vampyre yelled,
"After all that talk of honor, you strike right as you lose! Some sort of knight you are!"
Just as high as always, the warrior shot back.
"A deal with a devil is no deal at all! Monster! Face my blade!"
And so they fought.
Through the bar.
Through the back door.
Through the alleyway.
All the way out to the street.
Where, in the light of the moon, the warrior removed his mask. Faceless, and unmarked compared to the bleeding monstrosity before him, he faced off with the demon of the night. As they clashed once more, steel on claws, the Vampyre cried out.
"Who are you, to best me?! I am Rige, the long toothed, I am one of the first Vampyres of this world! I can sense the blood of the night in you, youngblood. Who do you think you are to walk in the day?! Your eyes should have burned and your skin melt! Do you seek to show off your curse, broken? Impossible! It is trickery, and you mock me with your smoke and mirrors! I shan't fall to you and your petty-!!"
At that, Jon, the Vampyre hunter, plunged his silver lined blade through the midsection of the Vampyre. Pulling him close, he whispered in his true voice. Deep and resounding, he spoke.
"You know, the world is changing. The same moon that rises in the evening isn't the one that you left that last morning. You cannot truly believe convincing yourself that something isn't or cannot be makes it so. Curses can be worked around, but for gaining of power, the sacrifice of something else so always required. Alchemy, transmutation, the law of equal exchange, it is a science that applies to all aspects of life. But enough of that. You are a dying breed, nightstalker, and you will fall before the might of those that stride in the day. Whether by time, sickness, or by my blade tonight. So, PREPARE YOURSELF, and LOOK into the EYES of DEATH!"
And at that, the Vampyre died.