Gystal (Secondary Character)

[Lamora]

Do you have any prior experience with Requiem? If so, please detail when (and what characters, if desired) you previously played: Just my one character, Erilian Lamora.


Briefly summarize your prior role-playing experience in a sentence or two: Khaeros, Tier bit of Req, DnD

Why do you wish to play on Requiem, and what do you expect from the shard?
Because it’s fun.


What will your character’s name be?: Gystal


Please briefly describe the physical attributes of your character, including age, looks, height, weight and any notable features:

Gystal’s visage is a ghastly one. His thick, prematurely aged skin holds countless tiny intricate tattoos encompassing most of his body. Upon closer inspection one might notice mixed into the chaos prinicpatus glyphs, many of which are blurred by small circular burn scars. Lesions of various sizes often speckle his face. He has thin, angled eyes housing two yellowed spheres. His pupils and iris are an almost indistinguishable shade of black. His face is wide with high cheekbones and a unusually large mouth. His teeth are plated gold and tipped in silver forming crude fangs. He dresses in bright, nearly rainbow like attire and more often than not wears a mask. His voice is a rough gurgle, his breaths weezing. He stands at 5’6. He carries with him an odd, though not unpleasant, smokey scent.

Briefly state your character’s intentions or motivations for entering the First Province: Find work meet up with past allies.


Briefly provide a pertinent detail or notable quality of your character’s history (this does not have to be exhaustive nor revealing of any information you wish to keep secret):

Born to a small tribe in the Westlands, Imrahl Ankhadu lived out the first few years in relative peace. At the age of five his tribe was attacked, slaughtered and he and his youngest brother Ahlrada were taken into the swamps. There they began to perform odd paganistic rituals upon both he and his brother.

After many years within the tribe Imrahl managed to escape. Fleeing at night through the swamps. Lost and uncertain of his future he wandered for a time until he met an charismatic Mercenary leader who fancied himself a freedom fighter. Fearing his past he began going by the name Gystal. Finding a home within their company he spent the next years riding and fighting alongside them. Eventually they were met with betrayal, wiping out the majority of the company. The few remnants that remained agreed to split up and meet within the first province.

Briefly write an in-character response to the following scenario:

He dreamed of blood. The metalic taste of the viscous liquid chased after him as he awoke with a fit of coughing that carried on until his chest filled with white hot needles. With a gasp the sickly thin man steadied himself. He could no longer remember the last time he slept under a roof, let alone on something that passed as a bed. He sat there for a moment upon the now mud coated linen as he searched within for the strength to stand. To carry on. A task that each day seemed insurmountable, the search availing little but sour thoughts or, if he was unlucky, even sourer regrets. This night he managed to find all three. Laughing bitterly as he stood, he did not bother to scrape the mud off his brown, weather worn clothing before breaking down his camp. It was late enough, he judged. He would need to head out soon. Gystal of the Westlands did not have the patience for tardiness, even in himself. Donning his mask with familiar ease he headed out.

The lights of the outpost shone in defiance of the surrounding darkness. An all too welcoming beacon in this untamed landscaped. Like a bug Gystal felt drawn to it, it’s warm lie of security pulling at his mind like a comforting promise. In time he would go take stock of the deceit himself but for now someone awaited him. Had awaited him for some time, he knew. Turning off the dirt path he clumsily delved through the thick brush, unmindful of the barbed vines that tore at his clothing and curiously coarse skin. Another half of bell later and he arrived at the clearing, the silver blue moon throwing unworldly shadows in all directions. One such shadow churned and twisted into the shape of a colossus, a giant, then finally a man who promptly began to speak.

“I cani smell ya from ‘er, mon. When da last time ye ‘av a bath?” The shadow’s voice held in it dry amusement.

Gystal smiled under his mask as he turned to face the large man, allowing a moment to measure his worth from afar before speaking.

“It sets me heart aflutter ‘ta hear ‘ye voice again, cully. I mean dat.” His voice was a gurgling croak, bubbling up from inside his lungs like boiling tar.

The huge shadow of a man paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his response before speaking.

“Jus’ ya den?”

“Ya, just me.” Gystal replied, his gurgling voice void of sentiment.

“What’a Vice?”

“Dead.”

“Ahrali? Damon?”

“It’s just me, Stoney.” The masked man pulled his gaze away as a fit of coughing took him once again.

The shadow cast man stood there unmoving, patiently awaiting the coughing to reside with familiarity before moving forward and handing over a small slip of paper.

“I’sa mon inda province. Says d’ere should be na diff-rence.”

Sliding a small cloth under the mask to wipe his face, Gystal regained his composure before taking the slip.

“An’ if there is?”

Gystal thought he saw the shadow shrug then but could not be certain in the gloom.

“Liston Del, things are gon’-”

“Save it.” The large man bit back before turning, his shadow quickly becoming lost in the countless others.

After a time the mask man laughed, his gurgling cackle carrying on for a long moment before transforming into a violent cough that carried on even longer. Lifting his mask to spit something on to the leaf laiden ground he turned, seeking the distant light once again.

Gystal arrived at the checkpoint and took his place within the modest lane. A bell later he was called upon, offering the crude looking officer a thin slip of paper. The man eyed the piece with fading interested before turning his regard to the masked man.

“Ya’ gonna have to take off the mask.” He growled, though Gystal sensed that was his natural tone of voice and held no particular malice.

With eager compliance, he slide off the plane ivory mask. Revealing behind it a large bestial grin, encompassed with dried blood, that threatened to split his face in two. The guard grimaced shaking his head as he handed the paper back and signaled to the gate guard.

“Go on.”

With a waist deep bow he took the paper, sliding it within his sleeve before donning his mask once more.

[Kristijonas]

Congratulations, adventurer. Your application is...

Approved.

Please ensure that your character name is spelled correctly upon exiting the Songmaker's chambers. A GM will approve your character at their earliest convenience.

Welcome to Requiem!