Post by Annasiel on Aug 28, 2015 20:26:56 GMT
Profile
Name: Cypress Keen
Age: 25
Race: Nordic Human
Gender: Female
Height: 5’6
Weight: 137 lbs
Rank: Civilian (Lieutenant at Sextant Pass)
Basic Descriptions
Cypress Keen
The Ice Demons
The Citadel of Frost
The Cryomancer
Sodden Down
A Victim of the Giants
Abilities and Combat Style
Cypress is trained in the martial arts of longsword fighting, a common skill among those from the northern flameguard. The northern style is renowned for its brutality and sense of seamless integration, smoothly flowing between slashes, pommel strikes, and swings. It is heavily reliant on physical strength and endurance. Because of this, elongated bouts prove difficult for users of this style, as they quickly wear down from continuous overexertion. Instead, it is recommended practitioners incapacitate the enemy as quickly and permanently as possible. Though the dominant hand usually rests on the upper handle to add power, Cypress leads with her left and guides with her right, despite the obvious handicap this method presents.
In addition to her physical abilities, Cypress also offers a magical incorporation that is also native to the flameguard warriors: tactile pyrokinesis. Impacts, both with her sword and unarmed, produce explosive bursts of fire, plasma, and electricity of intense heat, lit by a surface-hugging aura of elemental energy. The effect is limited in range, but potent on contact with anything capable of being burned. Outside of combat, this skill can be easily adapted into firestarting or generating light in dark areas.
Finally, Cypress has rudimentary knowledge of wilderness survival. This includes the ability to discern edible plants in tundral climates, hunting, skinning, and tracking in snow, rocks, and forests.
Biography
Day 1
The Sextant Pass may be the coldest place I’ve ever felt. Up on the walls of the fort, the wind seems to bite harder than in the sheltered streets of Sodden Down. It could be explained by the height, or the position farther north, but most of the guard believes its the breath of the cryomancer himself. So close to his territory, it’s not a hard superstition to take hold of. Every day, we see his nightmarish grotesques toiling in the tundra below, searching for Den knows what. Even when we send out flameguard to do away with them, more appear soon after. It starts to mess with your mind, makes you imagine an army of infinite size hiding in the darkness to the north. If what our scouts and scholars say is true, the ice demons were once a race of peaceful giants, turned to darkness by the cryomancer’s hubris. It might be true or it might not, but it’s a comforting argument against the fear of endless hordes. If he’s using a tribe of creatures to build his minions, he’ll eventually run out.
On a lighter note, we’ve received a new shipment of stock. I don’t know where the general got them, but things are a tad bit easier with paper, food, and torches in surplus. I wouldn’t be writing this now if not. Hopefully, Grant finally secured a solid trade line, and we’ll actually have one less thing to worry about. Knowing the flameguard’s luck, a scout probably just stumbled across another caravan that froze to death. Too many reckless idiots try to brave the Antemons, ignorant of the danger to the north. When hordes of ice demons strike, it doesn’t matter if you have a thousand fur coats or a bonfire. When they touch you, the cold does also. I remember hearing about their blight on my first patrol, back when Solidor led the troops. He showed us the pale corpse of some poor fool, not vigilant enough for the tundra, who had gotten himself attacked by one of the giants. He was fully intact, not a scratch on his body, but a faint layer of hoarfrost tinted his hair. While all us new cadets were watching, Solidor took a warhammer and swung it into the corpse’s torso. I can still recall our screams as the dead man shattered into a thousand shards of frozen flesh.
Our general then proceeded to scare us even further, warning us that it was rare to find someone chilled solid. The curse spreads slowly, eating from the skin down, and you remain alive for a good part of the process. Most soldiers, once blighted, cut off their own limbs in agony. The less fortunate are found by the demons, and become sadistic toys for the rest of their short lives. Death in the tundra is not quick, is not pretty, and is not glamorous. It is as cold and hard as the dread cryomancer’s heart. I miss Solidor, with his manic smile and his chaotic sense of humor. At least one of the archers managed to put him out of his misery. Well, that’s enough writing for tonight. My candle is turning into a nub, and I still need to finish my report.
Day 5
The damn giants took out our best soldier. We know what they’re doing now, the bastards. Always loitering just out of reach, digging deep pits into the earth, looking almost like dogs. We thought it was harmless lunacy. We were idiots, nothing they do is harmless. This morning, Drew and his squad were sent out by General Grant to do a normal scouting mission. They were only a mile out when the snow exploded. I don’t know what foul power was used, but story-tall spikes of ice tore them to pieces. They just seemed to erupt from the ground, quick as the edge of a whip in the hands of a rancher. No amount of skill could have saved Drew, there wasn’t even time to react, he was impaled in an instant. I was on watch duty with two others, Kinney and Simon. We rang the alarm, and hurried out to the squad as fast as we could. Two of them were still breathing when we arrived. Carl, Kinney’s brother, was lucky. He had been a bit to the left of the others, he had only lost a foot. He took it pretty well, stoic and calm, but we could tell he was in a good bit of pain. Drew, on the other hand, had taken a stake through the abdomen. His eyes were fluttering, and he kept mumbling nonsense. As soon as we neared the site, the ice retracted into the ground, disappearing again among the snow. We carefully extracted Carl and Drew, leaving the other bodies. It was pointless to risk setting off the trap again just to get two stiffs back to the fort.
When we got to the infirmary, we realized we were lucky to be alive. Both the men we had brought back were suffering from the cryomancer’s blight, their bodies already turning gray where they had been pierced. Summer, our surgeon, took a hacksaw to Carl’s leg, and he ended up surviving. Drew she had to put out of his misery. Now, as I write this sitting on a chair beside Carl’s cot, the officers are holding a meeting to decide the best course of action. I hope it won’t entail sending out more innocents to fall prey to the traps, but I know that’s wishful thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised if Grant, in all his idiocy, ordered a full attack.
Day 7
I was right, Grant is an utter fool. My regiment has just spent the past 30 hours packing for a large scale expedition. Our general’s an old war hero, so obviously he’d be sick of sitting around all day. Obviously he’d have little qualms about leading a suicide mission to destroy his enemy. I think the cryomancer noticed something is wrong, because the ice demons have completely disappeared. There hasn’t been a single sighting since the trap killed three of our own. As a cautionary measure, no more scouting missions have been announced, but it seems that wasn’t necessary. What they could be planning, though… I don’t want to know. The last time the giants vanished, Sextant Pass was hit with a massive attack. This happened decades ago, so I don’t really have first hand experience, but I hear they called it ‘The Night of the Apocalypse’. The demons even made it past our fort, though they were halted by the Stricken River before they could do any damage to the town. If that happens again. the river’s going to be our last line of defense, so we’re leaving behind five squadrons of archers when we go on our push.
Delilah, one of my bunk mates, is a bit worried about what’s going to happen. Hell, we all are, but she has a little kid back at Sodden Down. Not many of us can say the same. I tried to comfort her, but she just kept sobbing, her blankets over her head. If she can’t get her wits together by tomorrow morning, she’ll probably be reprimanded. The rest of my cabin is nervous as well, of course, though they’re all too prideful to show it. Kinney would rather die than admit weakness, and Simon fancies himself a stoic. The latter’s already tried to explain the benefit of his philosophy to the inconsolable girl, but I don’t think hearing “Pain is an illusion, and your death will be as meaningless as turning out a light” cheered her up one bit.
Oh, and Carl is doing better. He’s had to get used to his prosthetic, helping his squadron pack and all, and he’s using it pretty effectively for the piece of absolute rubbish it is. Honestly, you’d think we were pirates, grafting table legs onto limb stubs while swigging bottles of ale. I do think I remember hearing stories about Summer operating drunk, and one of our old generals had a pet parrot. Maybe we’re buccaneers after all.
Day 10
This is going to be a short one. My fingers are so cold I can barely feel them, and I’ve dropped my stylus so many times I want to scream. I’m shocked the ink hasn’t frozen in this despicable chill. We’ve been marching for a few days now, and there’s still no sign of the cryomancer or his troops. I think we’re about a two day walk from his citadel, so this absence is extremely ominous. Grant, praise his infinite wisdom, lowered rations to increase vigilance. I think he justifies it that the hunger pangs will raise focus, but all I’ve noticed is half the people supposed to be watching fall asleep. Grumpiness abounds during our marching hours, and fights have been breaking out more than Kinney’s acne. I think I’m going to go to sleep just to avoid this damn hell we’ve wandered into.
Day 12
Tensions are running high, and a lot of the troops are getting extremely disillusioned with our campaign. Grant’s been trying his best to ease anger, but you can only do so many bonding exercises before everyone wants to rip each other’s heads off. Simon stopped a man from being killed by one of his mates today. I don’t what he said or did to piss her off so much, but she tried to take a morningstar to his chest. Simon stopped the swing with his arm, and almost broke his humerus when the ball wrapped. I think he’ll be fine, as long as the gashes don’t get infected. Despite our ridiculous rations, we’re down half on tack and jerky, and a quarter on fireweed. I don’t know why our fearless leader insists on camping out within view of the citadel. He was so intent on wiping out his enemy before, and know that we can see the towers, he suddenly decides on an ambush.
Frankly, I don’t blame him. Just looking at the place gives me the chills, and I know that has nothing to do with the temperature. Something about it seems unnatural, foreboding, like it's going to devour us in our sleep. Needless to say, no one has passed out on guard duty since we’ve arrived. The giants are still nowhere to be seen, and I’m getting extremely antsy about that. First they seem to almost mock us, prancing around at our front door, and now they won’t even show their footprints. I know they’re there somewhere, watching us from over the mountains or behind the boulders, but you’d think there’d be at least some sign of their presence. I talked to Delilah about it, and she just brushed me off. I don’t think she wants anything more to worry about.
Day 25
They came in our sleep. I couldn’t do anything. Grant tried to raise the alarm but he got an ax to the head. I don’t remember much of what happened. Everything is flashes, images like an illuminated script. Writing to try and get my head straight, try and avoid the bad thoughts and the cold. It got very cold after they came. Delilah screamed very loud for someone so quiet. I suppose anyone would if they have their skin peeled off like a potato. Kinney was stabbed by one of our own, I don’t know who, I saw the sword in his belly. I think he was trying to run away. Simon tried to stop them, hold them off so more could escape, but he wasn’t strong enough. None of us were strong enough. Carl got the worst. A big blue one ripped off his wooden leg and shoved it through his skull. He didn’t die, his arms kept twitching like a cockroach. I don’t understand where they came from. They came from the shadows. I think I’m going to go for help.
First I’m going to kill the survivors.
Day 31
They reached the town, but I think they turned back. I’m going further south. I remember our founders coming from there, maybe their homeland still exists. One of the giants stayed behind, took me by surprise. I never realized how much their touch hurt. I don't know how much longer I can keep writing, my arm hurts so much. I can't bring myself to cut it off. I tried. I think I'm going to die.
Name: Cypress Keen
Age: 25
Race: Nordic Human
Gender: Female
Height: 5’6
Weight: 137 lbs
Rank: Civilian (Lieutenant at Sextant Pass)
Basic Descriptions
Cypress Keen
The Ice Demons
The Citadel of Frost
The Cryomancer
Sodden Down
A Victim of the Giants
Abilities and Combat Style
Cypress is trained in the martial arts of longsword fighting, a common skill among those from the northern flameguard. The northern style is renowned for its brutality and sense of seamless integration, smoothly flowing between slashes, pommel strikes, and swings. It is heavily reliant on physical strength and endurance. Because of this, elongated bouts prove difficult for users of this style, as they quickly wear down from continuous overexertion. Instead, it is recommended practitioners incapacitate the enemy as quickly and permanently as possible. Though the dominant hand usually rests on the upper handle to add power, Cypress leads with her left and guides with her right, despite the obvious handicap this method presents.
In addition to her physical abilities, Cypress also offers a magical incorporation that is also native to the flameguard warriors: tactile pyrokinesis. Impacts, both with her sword and unarmed, produce explosive bursts of fire, plasma, and electricity of intense heat, lit by a surface-hugging aura of elemental energy. The effect is limited in range, but potent on contact with anything capable of being burned. Outside of combat, this skill can be easily adapted into firestarting or generating light in dark areas.
Finally, Cypress has rudimentary knowledge of wilderness survival. This includes the ability to discern edible plants in tundral climates, hunting, skinning, and tracking in snow, rocks, and forests.
Biography
Day 1
The Sextant Pass may be the coldest place I’ve ever felt. Up on the walls of the fort, the wind seems to bite harder than in the sheltered streets of Sodden Down. It could be explained by the height, or the position farther north, but most of the guard believes its the breath of the cryomancer himself. So close to his territory, it’s not a hard superstition to take hold of. Every day, we see his nightmarish grotesques toiling in the tundra below, searching for Den knows what. Even when we send out flameguard to do away with them, more appear soon after. It starts to mess with your mind, makes you imagine an army of infinite size hiding in the darkness to the north. If what our scouts and scholars say is true, the ice demons were once a race of peaceful giants, turned to darkness by the cryomancer’s hubris. It might be true or it might not, but it’s a comforting argument against the fear of endless hordes. If he’s using a tribe of creatures to build his minions, he’ll eventually run out.
On a lighter note, we’ve received a new shipment of stock. I don’t know where the general got them, but things are a tad bit easier with paper, food, and torches in surplus. I wouldn’t be writing this now if not. Hopefully, Grant finally secured a solid trade line, and we’ll actually have one less thing to worry about. Knowing the flameguard’s luck, a scout probably just stumbled across another caravan that froze to death. Too many reckless idiots try to brave the Antemons, ignorant of the danger to the north. When hordes of ice demons strike, it doesn’t matter if you have a thousand fur coats or a bonfire. When they touch you, the cold does also. I remember hearing about their blight on my first patrol, back when Solidor led the troops. He showed us the pale corpse of some poor fool, not vigilant enough for the tundra, who had gotten himself attacked by one of the giants. He was fully intact, not a scratch on his body, but a faint layer of hoarfrost tinted his hair. While all us new cadets were watching, Solidor took a warhammer and swung it into the corpse’s torso. I can still recall our screams as the dead man shattered into a thousand shards of frozen flesh.
Our general then proceeded to scare us even further, warning us that it was rare to find someone chilled solid. The curse spreads slowly, eating from the skin down, and you remain alive for a good part of the process. Most soldiers, once blighted, cut off their own limbs in agony. The less fortunate are found by the demons, and become sadistic toys for the rest of their short lives. Death in the tundra is not quick, is not pretty, and is not glamorous. It is as cold and hard as the dread cryomancer’s heart. I miss Solidor, with his manic smile and his chaotic sense of humor. At least one of the archers managed to put him out of his misery. Well, that’s enough writing for tonight. My candle is turning into a nub, and I still need to finish my report.
Day 5
The damn giants took out our best soldier. We know what they’re doing now, the bastards. Always loitering just out of reach, digging deep pits into the earth, looking almost like dogs. We thought it was harmless lunacy. We were idiots, nothing they do is harmless. This morning, Drew and his squad were sent out by General Grant to do a normal scouting mission. They were only a mile out when the snow exploded. I don’t know what foul power was used, but story-tall spikes of ice tore them to pieces. They just seemed to erupt from the ground, quick as the edge of a whip in the hands of a rancher. No amount of skill could have saved Drew, there wasn’t even time to react, he was impaled in an instant. I was on watch duty with two others, Kinney and Simon. We rang the alarm, and hurried out to the squad as fast as we could. Two of them were still breathing when we arrived. Carl, Kinney’s brother, was lucky. He had been a bit to the left of the others, he had only lost a foot. He took it pretty well, stoic and calm, but we could tell he was in a good bit of pain. Drew, on the other hand, had taken a stake through the abdomen. His eyes were fluttering, and he kept mumbling nonsense. As soon as we neared the site, the ice retracted into the ground, disappearing again among the snow. We carefully extracted Carl and Drew, leaving the other bodies. It was pointless to risk setting off the trap again just to get two stiffs back to the fort.
When we got to the infirmary, we realized we were lucky to be alive. Both the men we had brought back were suffering from the cryomancer’s blight, their bodies already turning gray where they had been pierced. Summer, our surgeon, took a hacksaw to Carl’s leg, and he ended up surviving. Drew she had to put out of his misery. Now, as I write this sitting on a chair beside Carl’s cot, the officers are holding a meeting to decide the best course of action. I hope it won’t entail sending out more innocents to fall prey to the traps, but I know that’s wishful thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised if Grant, in all his idiocy, ordered a full attack.
Day 7
I was right, Grant is an utter fool. My regiment has just spent the past 30 hours packing for a large scale expedition. Our general’s an old war hero, so obviously he’d be sick of sitting around all day. Obviously he’d have little qualms about leading a suicide mission to destroy his enemy. I think the cryomancer noticed something is wrong, because the ice demons have completely disappeared. There hasn’t been a single sighting since the trap killed three of our own. As a cautionary measure, no more scouting missions have been announced, but it seems that wasn’t necessary. What they could be planning, though… I don’t want to know. The last time the giants vanished, Sextant Pass was hit with a massive attack. This happened decades ago, so I don’t really have first hand experience, but I hear they called it ‘The Night of the Apocalypse’. The demons even made it past our fort, though they were halted by the Stricken River before they could do any damage to the town. If that happens again. the river’s going to be our last line of defense, so we’re leaving behind five squadrons of archers when we go on our push.
Delilah, one of my bunk mates, is a bit worried about what’s going to happen. Hell, we all are, but she has a little kid back at Sodden Down. Not many of us can say the same. I tried to comfort her, but she just kept sobbing, her blankets over her head. If she can’t get her wits together by tomorrow morning, she’ll probably be reprimanded. The rest of my cabin is nervous as well, of course, though they’re all too prideful to show it. Kinney would rather die than admit weakness, and Simon fancies himself a stoic. The latter’s already tried to explain the benefit of his philosophy to the inconsolable girl, but I don’t think hearing “Pain is an illusion, and your death will be as meaningless as turning out a light” cheered her up one bit.
Oh, and Carl is doing better. He’s had to get used to his prosthetic, helping his squadron pack and all, and he’s using it pretty effectively for the piece of absolute rubbish it is. Honestly, you’d think we were pirates, grafting table legs onto limb stubs while swigging bottles of ale. I do think I remember hearing stories about Summer operating drunk, and one of our old generals had a pet parrot. Maybe we’re buccaneers after all.
Day 10
This is going to be a short one. My fingers are so cold I can barely feel them, and I’ve dropped my stylus so many times I want to scream. I’m shocked the ink hasn’t frozen in this despicable chill. We’ve been marching for a few days now, and there’s still no sign of the cryomancer or his troops. I think we’re about a two day walk from his citadel, so this absence is extremely ominous. Grant, praise his infinite wisdom, lowered rations to increase vigilance. I think he justifies it that the hunger pangs will raise focus, but all I’ve noticed is half the people supposed to be watching fall asleep. Grumpiness abounds during our marching hours, and fights have been breaking out more than Kinney’s acne. I think I’m going to go to sleep just to avoid this damn hell we’ve wandered into.
Day 12
Tensions are running high, and a lot of the troops are getting extremely disillusioned with our campaign. Grant’s been trying his best to ease anger, but you can only do so many bonding exercises before everyone wants to rip each other’s heads off. Simon stopped a man from being killed by one of his mates today. I don’t what he said or did to piss her off so much, but she tried to take a morningstar to his chest. Simon stopped the swing with his arm, and almost broke his humerus when the ball wrapped. I think he’ll be fine, as long as the gashes don’t get infected. Despite our ridiculous rations, we’re down half on tack and jerky, and a quarter on fireweed. I don’t know why our fearless leader insists on camping out within view of the citadel. He was so intent on wiping out his enemy before, and know that we can see the towers, he suddenly decides on an ambush.
Frankly, I don’t blame him. Just looking at the place gives me the chills, and I know that has nothing to do with the temperature. Something about it seems unnatural, foreboding, like it's going to devour us in our sleep. Needless to say, no one has passed out on guard duty since we’ve arrived. The giants are still nowhere to be seen, and I’m getting extremely antsy about that. First they seem to almost mock us, prancing around at our front door, and now they won’t even show their footprints. I know they’re there somewhere, watching us from over the mountains or behind the boulders, but you’d think there’d be at least some sign of their presence. I talked to Delilah about it, and she just brushed me off. I don’t think she wants anything more to worry about.
Day 25
They came in our sleep. I couldn’t do anything. Grant tried to raise the alarm but he got an ax to the head. I don’t remember much of what happened. Everything is flashes, images like an illuminated script. Writing to try and get my head straight, try and avoid the bad thoughts and the cold. It got very cold after they came. Delilah screamed very loud for someone so quiet. I suppose anyone would if they have their skin peeled off like a potato. Kinney was stabbed by one of our own, I don’t know who, I saw the sword in his belly. I think he was trying to run away. Simon tried to stop them, hold them off so more could escape, but he wasn’t strong enough. None of us were strong enough. Carl got the worst. A big blue one ripped off his wooden leg and shoved it through his skull. He didn’t die, his arms kept twitching like a cockroach. I don’t understand where they came from. They came from the shadows. I think I’m going to go for help.
First I’m going to kill the survivors.
Day 31
They reached the town, but I think they turned back. I’m going further south. I remember our founders coming from there, maybe their homeland still exists. One of the giants stayed behind, took me by surprise. I never realized how much their touch hurt. I don't know how much longer I can keep writing, my arm hurts so much. I can't bring myself to cut it off. I tried. I think I'm going to die.