by Greenling Fri Sep 02, 2016 9:32 pmName: Rhys, the Smoking Mirror, Slayer of the Citrine King
Type: Solar
Caste: Zenith
Anima: A jaguar made of blazing white-gold fire, smelling of blood and sandalwood, whose eyes and footsteps shine with many-colored light.
EXP: 0 / 0 Solar: 0 / 0
Intimacies:
Defining: Principle: Bring down tyrants by any means necessary, Tie: Tepeyollotl (respect/loyalty), Principle: Change through conflict
Major: Principle: Abuse of power and excessive restraint are both sins, Tie: Other Sorcerers (suspicion), Tie: The Minions of the Citrine King (rage)
Minor: Tie: Memory of His Sister (sad/wistful), Tie: Followers of Tepeyollotl (responsibility), Tie: Being Angry (catharsis), Tie: Golden Reaver (stupid adorable cat)
Att/Abi
STR 3 CHA 5 PER 3
DEX 5 MAN 1 INT 3
STA 3 APP 2 WIT 3
Caste:
Athletics 3
Integrity 5
Performance 2
Presence 3
Survival 1
Favored:
Awareness 3
Brawl 1
Dodge 2
MA: Tiger Style 3
Occult 5
Stealth 3
Other:
Linguistics 1
Lore 1
Resistance 1
Socialize 1
Specialties:
Performance: Prayer
Survival: Southeast
Survival: Animal Husbandry
Occult: Gods and Spirits
Charms
Awa:
Sensory Acuity Prana
Keen Taste and Smell Technique
Keen Hearing and Touch Technique
Int:
Divine Mantle
Eminent Paragon Approach
Invincible Solar Aegis
Occ:
Spirit-Detecting Glance
Terrestrial Circle Sorcery
Pre:
Listener-Swaying Argument
Tiger's Dread Symmetry
Res:
Ox-Body Technique x1
Ste:
Easily-Overlooked Presence Method
Blinding Battle Feint
Martial Arts
Tiger Style:
Crimson Leaping Cat Technique
Striking Fury Claws
Spells
Wood Dragon's Claw (control)
Sorcerous Initiation/Shaping Rituals: Essentially from Talisman of Ten Thousand Eyes.
When the sorcerer takes the first shape sorcery action to begin casting a spell and stunts it with a description of how she casts the spell through the talisman or draws on its power, she gains (stunt rating + 2) sorcerous motes towards completing this spell. This benefit can only be received once per scene. Stunts to enhance the sorcerer’s control spell do not count against the once per scene limit.
Merits
Familiar 2 (Golden Reaver)
Language 1
Martial Artist 4
Mentor 3 (Tepeyollotl)
Essence 1 Personal 13/13 Peripheral 21/33 (12m2w- Keen T/S, H/T)
Willpower [X] [X] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]
Limit 0/10 | Trigger: Abuse of power that harms those without it
Backstory:
In the mountains of the Southeast, north of the Dreaming Sea, past Volivat and the Children of Ten Fathers and just outside the Empire of the Winged Serpent, an aging kingdom lies in turmoil. Its name was once Tlocoro Mahak, the center of a region of nomadic herders, and it may be again, but for two hundred years it has borne only the name of the Domain of the Citrine King. Sorceror, tyrant, strong as an ox-dragon and cruel as a river crocodile, the Citrine King's law is cruel. The people herd together behind the walls of the city at night, hiding from his beasts that stalk outside. The fertile mountainside has long been exhausted or twisted by his experiments. Those made to serve him have been twisted as well.
The Citrine King is dead. His killer- his prospective successor, by the old laws- fled in the night, shining like the midday sun. None recognized his face, nor still do any in the kingdom know the reason for the tyrant's demise. By the time his guards broke through the door to the bath, there was little left of him.
Rhys was born into a family of farriers and stable-keepers. His father did the books, his mother the rest. He loved the horses and other animals that came in and out with the travellers permitted by the king, and spent more time with them than with other children- except for his sister. A year apart, they were inseparable. They ran through the streets together, fantasized about the outside world, told stories together, and harassed their older brother when he was working. Then when Rhys was eight, the Citrine King took his brother. Something in the astrology of his birth made him an ingredient in the king's plans, perhaps a sacrifice, perhaps worse. Either way, he never came home. Rhys' childhood was shattered, his illusions of the normalcy of his life gone. He retreated into himself.
For the next six years, Rhys spent more time on the streets than working with his family. He became surly, withdrawn; he made friends with some rabble-rousers and got into plenty of fights. He wasn't well-liked, but his sheer stubbornness meant he was respected. The street kids traded a currency of dares, taunting the Kingsguard, scaling buildings, sneaking out the cracks in the wall after nightfall. For Rhys, it was personal. He wasn't the only one. Without really trying, his hatred and sheer force of personality turned them into a little group of revolutionaries. It didn't end well.
One fateful night, they snuck into the palace with bags of animal dung. They were caught. Some made it out, including Rhys. The next morning, the rest were hanging from the palace walls, and a statement was read in the public squares: their friends and families would give them all up willingly by nightfall, or die with them.
Over his sister's protests, as his parents argued, as they gathered the courage to hide him, Rhys slipped out. Once away from the stables, he made for the square, punched a crier in the face, and led the guards on a goose chase to one of the cracks in the wall. From there, he disappeared.
He was deep in the wilds by nightfall. Whether that would be good enough for the King or not he didn't know, didn't want to find out. He had little skill in survival, and for three days he was lost, eating and drinking what he could find and barely escaping the predators that prowled.
On the morning of the fourth day, before the sun had entirely risen, he woke up to an old man stirring a cooking pot. It smelled amazing, like fresh fish and cabbage and spices. He dragged himself down from the branches and asked for a share. The old man yelled at him, tried to chase him off. Rhys, starving and angry at the old bastard's refusal, held his ground. The old man got louder, waving his cane. Rhys grabbed it. The boy went over one shoulder and into a tree.
It went on like that until Rhys could hardly stand, on the one hand trying to steal the cookpot and in return getting the snot beaten out of him. Bruised and bleeding, he stared with a fire in his eyes.
The old man smiled with too many teeth. You're in my territory, he said.
Get fucked, said Rhys.
The jaguar god, red of claw, fur of smoke and shadow, seeped out from his illusory form, tossed the boy over his shoulder and carried him by his ankles.
Tepeyollotl is an old god with many names. He is a source of legend, worshipped by scholars, thieves, assassins, and scavengers. Like many gods in the area, largely unharried by Immaculates and constrained by spirit court infighting, he has temples in his name and a full-time priesthood. Unlike most, his temples are hidden and his priesthood are monks, trained in stealth, occult knowledge, and whatever other skills Tepeyollotl deems appropriate. Rhys threw himself into his new life, channeling his anger and guilt into study and the martial arts. He quickly became a favorite among the junior monks, and though this mostly manifested in getting the snot beat out of him on the regular by He of Deadly Fangs, he developed an affection for the god. The god, in return, kept a wary and possessive eye on Rhys, particularly when he started spouting off again about the Citrine King.
Rhys grew through puberty and spent five years in Tepeyollotl's service. When he was nineteen, the god tossed him out on his ear and told him to get his revenge already. Rhys went.
The source of the Citrine King's sorcerous power was said to have once been an ancient talisman made from the heart of a godlike creature from another realm, or even another world. Through a secret alchemical process he had it melted down into a crystalline ink and tattooed into his skin so that none could ever steal it from him. Rhys gathered what information he could and set out on a quest for reagents that could reverse the process. For roughly a year he travelled throughout the East, talking to savants and battling thaumaturges for rare ingredients. He scavenged strange ruins, met unusual people, and evaded ghosts and monsters until he got what he needed.
After all that, disabling the wards to the inner palace, sneaking in and waiting for the King to take a bath was almost an anticlimax.
There were guards. Rhys took them out, though he got a club to the stomach. The King cast a spell of Obsidian Butterflies. Rhys managed to dodge the majority of it, and as he stumbled over shattered remnants he uncorked the solution and launched it right into the King's face.
Acrid stench filled the room. Burning flesh, but it smelled like grass and bile. The King stared up at him with the half of his face that was still intact, surprise and terror in his old eyes.
Rhys stared down at the dying figure of his childhood nightmares, emotions battling for dominance. He bent down, reached for a shattered butterfly, and gave the King a quick death.
When he stood up straight again he felt blazing light and a booming voice fill his head.
Despite everything, said the voice. It sounded a little like his father, but deeper and higher at the same time. Your life has little room for pity, yet still you harbor it. Your will is needed in this world, Rhys. Take my power and wield it well.
There was pounding outside the door. Shouting. Rhys realized he was crying. He burst through the door, leapt out the nearest window and ran.
It began to rain. He ran faster than he'd ever run, his senses so heightened his brain felt like it was on fire. The temple stood matte black, same as always. His light had dwindled down to a soft shine coming from his forehead.
Lightning struck, and Tepeyollotl was there, all smoke and shadows. He leapt. They fought. Rhys lost. Face-first in the mud, fangs snarling against his neck.
I had hoped this day would not come, said the god, but you still cannot destroy me.
What? Rhys spat mud from his mouth. I just- I did it. I just thought I could come home.
The Sun does not burn in you to remove my shadow from the world?
Fuck the Sun, grumbled Rhys.
*
Seven months later, Rhys was travelling the East again. As the Smoking Mirror, high priest of Tepeyollotl, he negotiated with the local spirit courts in the name of his god. One day not long past, Red-Faced Stranger, god of travel and the crossroads, took offense at the young man's lack of subtlety. Rhys left the sanctum by the wrong door, and he and his familiar fell thirty feet into the ocean outside of Wu-Jian.
Now he's angry, missing his entourage, in a place where he doesn't speak the language, trying to keep a wild jaguar from eating anyone in a packed city-state of millions of people, run by Immaculate monks. It's going to be awkward
Type: Solar
Caste: Zenith
Anima: A jaguar made of blazing white-gold fire, smelling of blood and sandalwood, whose eyes and footsteps shine with many-colored light.
EXP: 0 / 0 Solar: 0 / 0
Intimacies:
Defining: Principle: Bring down tyrants by any means necessary, Tie: Tepeyollotl (respect/loyalty), Principle: Change through conflict
Major: Principle: Abuse of power and excessive restraint are both sins, Tie: Other Sorcerers (suspicion), Tie: The Minions of the Citrine King (rage)
Minor: Tie: Memory of His Sister (sad/wistful), Tie: Followers of Tepeyollotl (responsibility), Tie: Being Angry (catharsis), Tie: Golden Reaver (stupid adorable cat)
Att/Abi
STR 3 CHA 5 PER 3
DEX 5 MAN 1 INT 3
STA 3 APP 2 WIT 3
Caste:
Athletics 3
Integrity 5
Performance 2
Presence 3
Survival 1
Favored:
Awareness 3
Brawl 1
Dodge 2
MA: Tiger Style 3
Occult 5
Stealth 3
Other:
Linguistics 1
Lore 1
Resistance 1
Socialize 1
Specialties:
Performance: Prayer
Survival: Southeast
Survival: Animal Husbandry
Occult: Gods and Spirits
Charms
Awa:
Sensory Acuity Prana
Keen Taste and Smell Technique
Keen Hearing and Touch Technique
Int:
Divine Mantle
Eminent Paragon Approach
Invincible Solar Aegis
Occ:
Spirit-Detecting Glance
Terrestrial Circle Sorcery
Pre:
Listener-Swaying Argument
Tiger's Dread Symmetry
Res:
Ox-Body Technique x1
Ste:
Easily-Overlooked Presence Method
Blinding Battle Feint
Martial Arts
Tiger Style:
Crimson Leaping Cat Technique
Striking Fury Claws
Spells
Wood Dragon's Claw (control)
Sorcerous Initiation/Shaping Rituals: Essentially from Talisman of Ten Thousand Eyes.
When the sorcerer takes the first shape sorcery action to begin casting a spell and stunts it with a description of how she casts the spell through the talisman or draws on its power, she gains (stunt rating + 2) sorcerous motes towards completing this spell. This benefit can only be received once per scene. Stunts to enhance the sorcerer’s control spell do not count against the once per scene limit.
Merits
Familiar 2 (Golden Reaver)
Language 1
Martial Artist 4
Mentor 3 (Tepeyollotl)
Essence 1 Personal 13/13 Peripheral 21/33 (12m2w- Keen T/S, H/T)
Willpower [X] [X] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ]
Limit 0/10 | Trigger: Abuse of power that harms those without it
Backstory:
In the mountains of the Southeast, north of the Dreaming Sea, past Volivat and the Children of Ten Fathers and just outside the Empire of the Winged Serpent, an aging kingdom lies in turmoil. Its name was once Tlocoro Mahak, the center of a region of nomadic herders, and it may be again, but for two hundred years it has borne only the name of the Domain of the Citrine King. Sorceror, tyrant, strong as an ox-dragon and cruel as a river crocodile, the Citrine King's law is cruel. The people herd together behind the walls of the city at night, hiding from his beasts that stalk outside. The fertile mountainside has long been exhausted or twisted by his experiments. Those made to serve him have been twisted as well.
The Citrine King is dead. His killer- his prospective successor, by the old laws- fled in the night, shining like the midday sun. None recognized his face, nor still do any in the kingdom know the reason for the tyrant's demise. By the time his guards broke through the door to the bath, there was little left of him.
Rhys was born into a family of farriers and stable-keepers. His father did the books, his mother the rest. He loved the horses and other animals that came in and out with the travellers permitted by the king, and spent more time with them than with other children- except for his sister. A year apart, they were inseparable. They ran through the streets together, fantasized about the outside world, told stories together, and harassed their older brother when he was working. Then when Rhys was eight, the Citrine King took his brother. Something in the astrology of his birth made him an ingredient in the king's plans, perhaps a sacrifice, perhaps worse. Either way, he never came home. Rhys' childhood was shattered, his illusions of the normalcy of his life gone. He retreated into himself.
For the next six years, Rhys spent more time on the streets than working with his family. He became surly, withdrawn; he made friends with some rabble-rousers and got into plenty of fights. He wasn't well-liked, but his sheer stubbornness meant he was respected. The street kids traded a currency of dares, taunting the Kingsguard, scaling buildings, sneaking out the cracks in the wall after nightfall. For Rhys, it was personal. He wasn't the only one. Without really trying, his hatred and sheer force of personality turned them into a little group of revolutionaries. It didn't end well.
One fateful night, they snuck into the palace with bags of animal dung. They were caught. Some made it out, including Rhys. The next morning, the rest were hanging from the palace walls, and a statement was read in the public squares: their friends and families would give them all up willingly by nightfall, or die with them.
Over his sister's protests, as his parents argued, as they gathered the courage to hide him, Rhys slipped out. Once away from the stables, he made for the square, punched a crier in the face, and led the guards on a goose chase to one of the cracks in the wall. From there, he disappeared.
He was deep in the wilds by nightfall. Whether that would be good enough for the King or not he didn't know, didn't want to find out. He had little skill in survival, and for three days he was lost, eating and drinking what he could find and barely escaping the predators that prowled.
On the morning of the fourth day, before the sun had entirely risen, he woke up to an old man stirring a cooking pot. It smelled amazing, like fresh fish and cabbage and spices. He dragged himself down from the branches and asked for a share. The old man yelled at him, tried to chase him off. Rhys, starving and angry at the old bastard's refusal, held his ground. The old man got louder, waving his cane. Rhys grabbed it. The boy went over one shoulder and into a tree.
It went on like that until Rhys could hardly stand, on the one hand trying to steal the cookpot and in return getting the snot beaten out of him. Bruised and bleeding, he stared with a fire in his eyes.
The old man smiled with too many teeth. You're in my territory, he said.
Get fucked, said Rhys.
The jaguar god, red of claw, fur of smoke and shadow, seeped out from his illusory form, tossed the boy over his shoulder and carried him by his ankles.
Tepeyollotl is an old god with many names. He is a source of legend, worshipped by scholars, thieves, assassins, and scavengers. Like many gods in the area, largely unharried by Immaculates and constrained by spirit court infighting, he has temples in his name and a full-time priesthood. Unlike most, his temples are hidden and his priesthood are monks, trained in stealth, occult knowledge, and whatever other skills Tepeyollotl deems appropriate. Rhys threw himself into his new life, channeling his anger and guilt into study and the martial arts. He quickly became a favorite among the junior monks, and though this mostly manifested in getting the snot beat out of him on the regular by He of Deadly Fangs, he developed an affection for the god. The god, in return, kept a wary and possessive eye on Rhys, particularly when he started spouting off again about the Citrine King.
Rhys grew through puberty and spent five years in Tepeyollotl's service. When he was nineteen, the god tossed him out on his ear and told him to get his revenge already. Rhys went.
The source of the Citrine King's sorcerous power was said to have once been an ancient talisman made from the heart of a godlike creature from another realm, or even another world. Through a secret alchemical process he had it melted down into a crystalline ink and tattooed into his skin so that none could ever steal it from him. Rhys gathered what information he could and set out on a quest for reagents that could reverse the process. For roughly a year he travelled throughout the East, talking to savants and battling thaumaturges for rare ingredients. He scavenged strange ruins, met unusual people, and evaded ghosts and monsters until he got what he needed.
After all that, disabling the wards to the inner palace, sneaking in and waiting for the King to take a bath was almost an anticlimax.
There were guards. Rhys took them out, though he got a club to the stomach. The King cast a spell of Obsidian Butterflies. Rhys managed to dodge the majority of it, and as he stumbled over shattered remnants he uncorked the solution and launched it right into the King's face.
Acrid stench filled the room. Burning flesh, but it smelled like grass and bile. The King stared up at him with the half of his face that was still intact, surprise and terror in his old eyes.
Rhys stared down at the dying figure of his childhood nightmares, emotions battling for dominance. He bent down, reached for a shattered butterfly, and gave the King a quick death.
When he stood up straight again he felt blazing light and a booming voice fill his head.
Despite everything, said the voice. It sounded a little like his father, but deeper and higher at the same time. Your life has little room for pity, yet still you harbor it. Your will is needed in this world, Rhys. Take my power and wield it well.
There was pounding outside the door. Shouting. Rhys realized he was crying. He burst through the door, leapt out the nearest window and ran.
It began to rain. He ran faster than he'd ever run, his senses so heightened his brain felt like it was on fire. The temple stood matte black, same as always. His light had dwindled down to a soft shine coming from his forehead.
Lightning struck, and Tepeyollotl was there, all smoke and shadows. He leapt. They fought. Rhys lost. Face-first in the mud, fangs snarling against his neck.
I had hoped this day would not come, said the god, but you still cannot destroy me.
What? Rhys spat mud from his mouth. I just- I did it. I just thought I could come home.
The Sun does not burn in you to remove my shadow from the world?
Fuck the Sun, grumbled Rhys.
*
Seven months later, Rhys was travelling the East again. As the Smoking Mirror, high priest of Tepeyollotl, he negotiated with the local spirit courts in the name of his god. One day not long past, Red-Faced Stranger, god of travel and the crossroads, took offense at the young man's lack of subtlety. Rhys left the sanctum by the wrong door, and he and his familiar fell thirty feet into the ocean outside of Wu-Jian.
Now he's angry, missing his entourage, in a place where he doesn't speak the language, trying to keep a wild jaguar from eating anyone in a packed city-state of millions of people, run by Immaculate monks. It's going to be awkward
Last edited by Greenling on Wed Oct 05, 2016 11:17 pm; edited 3 times in total
