Post by rozenforte on Sept 11, 2010 17:46:37 GMT -5
Name- Rozenforte Bel'Albion
Age- 20
Date of Birth- June 6, 1990.
Homelands- Vatican City, Vatican City.
Race- Human/Demon
Class- Black Mage/Necromancer
Final-
Devour Essence
A gift imparted upon him by his friend inside his head. Though with every use, a tiny shred of sanity is lost in the great, big world. Bel is granted a momentary time by his head-friend to reap and consume the spirits of the deceased. This technique is quite noticeable by others, seeing as how his right eye and arm are devoured by an eternal blackness more so that the tattoos on them. His fingers are no longer human, but ethereal, a miasma of chaos and insanity. This attracts the spirits from their places of rest, their yearning for more power letting out instincts of hunger and starvation. Just when they think they attain the means to satiate their hunger, Bel’s claw rips their essence apart and binds their essence into the tattoo on his arm. There the spirits stay until he dies. A new link on the tattoo for every new spirit.
In the ultimate meaning, he attempts to suck out the soul of his opponent, or souls of opponents.
----------------------------
{Weapon information}
Bel'Albion Family Sword
A ceremonial sword that is blunted and somewhat useless. Although intricately carved and etched, the blade has no enchantments or special function. However, it is very finely crafted, and Rozenforte enjoys how artfully constructed it was.
Belial
Belial has no form, but rather, he is a being. When he manifests himself onto Rozenforte's body, the area is usually eaten up by a complete and solid blackness that looks similar to mist. When manifested, Belial gives Rozenforte the power to summon minions of the underworld and the ability to harness the element of fire.
When under the influence of a full take-over (meaning Belial manifests his entire being unto Rozenforte), Rozenforte's physical conditioning is affected as well. He becomes faster, stronger, and more agile. He also gains a new additional sense to his human senses, which allows him to feel the presence of life in the area and see the souls of beings.
{Armour Information}
Repulsion
Rozenforte does not have any armor. In fact, he usually walks about in a pair of fine leather shoes and an ensemble that was fitted for him by Italian tailors. Thankfully, Vatican City has some of the best tailors around. To make up for the lack or armor, Belial repels most attacks away. Sometimes when unable to dodge an attack, a demonic hand will thrust up from Rozenforte's body and block the attack successfully.
When facing projectiles, sometimes the attack will be blocked by a flash of demonic magic, rendering the arrow or arcane art into a safer form.
{Accessory Information}
Music Box
There is nothing special here. A simple music box with a memento inside that only interests Rozenforte.
{Physical Description}
He's not very tall, but not very short either. From first glance an easy woman would whistle, on a second glance a librarian might give him a look. Rozenforte is of fine heritage and background, an Italian gentleman at his fullest. His eyes are the color of a starry midnight, and there is not a speck of hair upon his face. For some reason, hair just never grew.
He has medium length jet black hair, usually tied in a roguish knot that rests in a small pony-tail. Usually when he's out and about, he's seen wearing his favorite suit made by his family's personal tailor.
Rozenforte is an odd fellow, to make descriptions simple. He doesn’t follow the normality of life. Sociability, togetherness; he doesn’t grasp the meaning of these words. His sentences are few, his words even fewer. When he talks, he does so when he has conviction to. Not under any other circumstances, may they be depending on life or death, this matters not. He is not arrogant, though others label him as such because he simply does not speak. That cliché vision, a strong and silent man with a haunted past. Though, his past isn’t haunted. Rather, his personality is affected by something that was a blessing to him. The day he met his counter-part in the realm of dreams, and massacred all those who ‘cared’ for him for breakfast that morning. Though that’s a lie, he does do one thing a lot with his voice.
He laughs.
{Background}
Loneliness is not a choice.
There the boy sat, his little music box in his hands, the melody washing over inside and outside. It was his birthday this day, this glorious day. He was turning six. A wonderful number to be heading upon it as it was, a number that signified the morning star, the sign of change. His friends were coming to visit him this day and give him their childish praise, his uncles and aunts coming to shower him with gifts that he could not use yet. However, this boy was alone in his room. No friends were at his back. No family members were giving him cheer. Well, that’s not entirely accurate.
His mother was there with him. Her eye gazed upon him from his hand. The boy fondled the music box in his hand, opening the box to look upon his mother, the most favorite part he found of her. Her right eye. Oh how many times he had received gazes of praise and victory from the face of his mother, and how this one eye seemed so special to him! The little boy laughed innocently in the dark room, closing the music box as he got up from the ground and turned around. His little plaid shorts held up by a tiny belt buckle and a regal shirt clasped around at the nape of the neck by an emblem depicting the seal of House Bel’Albion, a noble family within Vatican City. The boy walked like little boys should across his room, a gait with joy and innocence. He stopped and bent over, looking upon the body of his mother. Her right eye was missing from her head, and blood seemed to form a pool around her body. Her insides were spread all across the blue carpet, the crimson making purple within the fabric. The boy leaned to his mother’s face, her expression still in shock and despair. The little boy kissed her on her red-dyed forehead.
“L'amo, la Madre…” the boy said with his castrato chiming, kissing her on the forehead again as he skipped out of the room.
The main hall of the house was grand in its splendor as the little boy strolled happily onto the balcony. He walked to the rail and stood on his tiptoes to look over the finely-carved mahogany. He could smell the wood and feel its rich texture as his eyes happily gazed upon his birthday party. He giggled like a young child should, the sound echoing throughout the hall and reaching back to his own ears.
Below, in the banquet of the main hall, were his party and his party guests. Five tables were arranged in a star formation, party streamers connecting the tables to make a pentacle. Silly string and cake frosting from food fights made symbols within the arms of the pentacle, the circle of the banquet hall bringing the pentacle into an inscribed form. His friends and family, they gave him the best gift of all this year. They all sat silently and still, their bodies drained of blood and life, leaving skeletons where cadavers should be. His sister had played the best part, the star of his party! She was lying down in the center of the pentacle, her body torn asunder as soon as the most important party guest had arrived. His friend Mr. Belial.
The little boy stepped away from the balcony and proceeded down the steps, skipping ever other step. His mother told him to never do it, but she was allowing him to do so now. His hand ran along the railing, wet blood making a slick sound as the boy’s hand ran over it. He jumped, bypassing the last step to the floor of the main hall. He swung on the railing, his direction turning around to face his party as he proceeded forward, stopping at his sister’s head. He reached down and picked her head up by one of her pigtails, whatever was left of her life draining away onto the floor and the tiny, shiny black shoes the little boy had on. The boy kissed her forehead as well.
“Ringraziarla così molto, la Sorella.” His castrato voice chimed once more, her head making a thud as it hit the floor and the boy turned, facing the front door of the house.
He strolled forward, his mind suddenly becoming nervous and scared. The front door was open before him, and he did not know what to do. His Mother had always said not to go outside without supervision!
“Mr. Belial, Mama said to not go outside unless someone was holding my hand.”
”That is fine, young master. I will hold your hand as long as you hold mine.”
The little boy’s arm was suddenly engulfed in a black flame-like substance. His little, delicate fingers turned into claws of demonic origin, the black miasma swirling around as it reached his face. A breeze rolled by, blowing into the mansion as the boy stood at the front door. His dainty brown hair parted and out of that forest of follicles sprang his left eye. His fledgling orb was a black pool of death and destruction. Like an abyss, sucking in all life around it, rendering the blessed into the deviled. The little boy giggled as he skipped along and out of the house.
Years passed and that little boy grew up, always in hand with Mr. Belial as he went from country to country. He did odd-jobs, mostly attending funerals as a hearse-driver when he was old enough to get his license. He turned twenty years old one day as he fondled the music box in his hand, in his apartment, alone. He opened the box and gazed upon his mother's eye, kissing it lightly on its dried up iris.
The room grew cold suddenly. Rozenforte felt a presence other than Mr. Belial, and that's when it happened. The day he decided to live up to his end of the contract he had signed with Mr. Belial. Behind him, floating in the air was the exact likeness of his mother. Her spirit had been resting inside of the eye all this time and finally decided to show itself. Rozenforte's arm was immediately engulfed in a black miasma as his clawed hand shot out and slashed the spirit into strands, his mother's ghost turning into mist as it was absorbed into his palm, a fiery sensation shooting across his forehead. He writhed in pain.
He fell to the ground, his hands upon his forehead, and when the pain was released, he had freedom. He looked into the mirror. Upon his forehead was burnt a black link, like a chain. He felt empowered. He touched the link, and his head was filled with nostalgic memories of his childhood.
His mother screamed in his head.
A tear went down his cheek as he sniffed, laughing weakly. His strained voice echoed like a hollow legacy, “I love you, Mother…”
{Pictures}
Age- 20
Date of Birth- June 6, 1990.
Homelands- Vatican City, Vatican City.
Race- Human/Demon
Class- Black Mage/Necromancer
Final-
Devour Essence
A gift imparted upon him by his friend inside his head. Though with every use, a tiny shred of sanity is lost in the great, big world. Bel is granted a momentary time by his head-friend to reap and consume the spirits of the deceased. This technique is quite noticeable by others, seeing as how his right eye and arm are devoured by an eternal blackness more so that the tattoos on them. His fingers are no longer human, but ethereal, a miasma of chaos and insanity. This attracts the spirits from their places of rest, their yearning for more power letting out instincts of hunger and starvation. Just when they think they attain the means to satiate their hunger, Bel’s claw rips their essence apart and binds their essence into the tattoo on his arm. There the spirits stay until he dies. A new link on the tattoo for every new spirit.
In the ultimate meaning, he attempts to suck out the soul of his opponent, or souls of opponents.
----------------------------
{Weapon information}
Bel'Albion Family Sword
A ceremonial sword that is blunted and somewhat useless. Although intricately carved and etched, the blade has no enchantments or special function. However, it is very finely crafted, and Rozenforte enjoys how artfully constructed it was.
Belial
Belial has no form, but rather, he is a being. When he manifests himself onto Rozenforte's body, the area is usually eaten up by a complete and solid blackness that looks similar to mist. When manifested, Belial gives Rozenforte the power to summon minions of the underworld and the ability to harness the element of fire.
When under the influence of a full take-over (meaning Belial manifests his entire being unto Rozenforte), Rozenforte's physical conditioning is affected as well. He becomes faster, stronger, and more agile. He also gains a new additional sense to his human senses, which allows him to feel the presence of life in the area and see the souls of beings.
{Armour Information}
Repulsion
Rozenforte does not have any armor. In fact, he usually walks about in a pair of fine leather shoes and an ensemble that was fitted for him by Italian tailors. Thankfully, Vatican City has some of the best tailors around. To make up for the lack or armor, Belial repels most attacks away. Sometimes when unable to dodge an attack, a demonic hand will thrust up from Rozenforte's body and block the attack successfully.
When facing projectiles, sometimes the attack will be blocked by a flash of demonic magic, rendering the arrow or arcane art into a safer form.
{Accessory Information}
Music Box
There is nothing special here. A simple music box with a memento inside that only interests Rozenforte.
{Physical Description}
He's not very tall, but not very short either. From first glance an easy woman would whistle, on a second glance a librarian might give him a look. Rozenforte is of fine heritage and background, an Italian gentleman at his fullest. His eyes are the color of a starry midnight, and there is not a speck of hair upon his face. For some reason, hair just never grew.
He has medium length jet black hair, usually tied in a roguish knot that rests in a small pony-tail. Usually when he's out and about, he's seen wearing his favorite suit made by his family's personal tailor.
Rozenforte is an odd fellow, to make descriptions simple. He doesn’t follow the normality of life. Sociability, togetherness; he doesn’t grasp the meaning of these words. His sentences are few, his words even fewer. When he talks, he does so when he has conviction to. Not under any other circumstances, may they be depending on life or death, this matters not. He is not arrogant, though others label him as such because he simply does not speak. That cliché vision, a strong and silent man with a haunted past. Though, his past isn’t haunted. Rather, his personality is affected by something that was a blessing to him. The day he met his counter-part in the realm of dreams, and massacred all those who ‘cared’ for him for breakfast that morning. Though that’s a lie, he does do one thing a lot with his voice.
He laughs.
{Background}
Loneliness is not a choice.
There the boy sat, his little music box in his hands, the melody washing over inside and outside. It was his birthday this day, this glorious day. He was turning six. A wonderful number to be heading upon it as it was, a number that signified the morning star, the sign of change. His friends were coming to visit him this day and give him their childish praise, his uncles and aunts coming to shower him with gifts that he could not use yet. However, this boy was alone in his room. No friends were at his back. No family members were giving him cheer. Well, that’s not entirely accurate.
His mother was there with him. Her eye gazed upon him from his hand. The boy fondled the music box in his hand, opening the box to look upon his mother, the most favorite part he found of her. Her right eye. Oh how many times he had received gazes of praise and victory from the face of his mother, and how this one eye seemed so special to him! The little boy laughed innocently in the dark room, closing the music box as he got up from the ground and turned around. His little plaid shorts held up by a tiny belt buckle and a regal shirt clasped around at the nape of the neck by an emblem depicting the seal of House Bel’Albion, a noble family within Vatican City. The boy walked like little boys should across his room, a gait with joy and innocence. He stopped and bent over, looking upon the body of his mother. Her right eye was missing from her head, and blood seemed to form a pool around her body. Her insides were spread all across the blue carpet, the crimson making purple within the fabric. The boy leaned to his mother’s face, her expression still in shock and despair. The little boy kissed her on her red-dyed forehead.
“L'amo, la Madre…” the boy said with his castrato chiming, kissing her on the forehead again as he skipped out of the room.
The main hall of the house was grand in its splendor as the little boy strolled happily onto the balcony. He walked to the rail and stood on his tiptoes to look over the finely-carved mahogany. He could smell the wood and feel its rich texture as his eyes happily gazed upon his birthday party. He giggled like a young child should, the sound echoing throughout the hall and reaching back to his own ears.
Below, in the banquet of the main hall, were his party and his party guests. Five tables were arranged in a star formation, party streamers connecting the tables to make a pentacle. Silly string and cake frosting from food fights made symbols within the arms of the pentacle, the circle of the banquet hall bringing the pentacle into an inscribed form. His friends and family, they gave him the best gift of all this year. They all sat silently and still, their bodies drained of blood and life, leaving skeletons where cadavers should be. His sister had played the best part, the star of his party! She was lying down in the center of the pentacle, her body torn asunder as soon as the most important party guest had arrived. His friend Mr. Belial.
The little boy stepped away from the balcony and proceeded down the steps, skipping ever other step. His mother told him to never do it, but she was allowing him to do so now. His hand ran along the railing, wet blood making a slick sound as the boy’s hand ran over it. He jumped, bypassing the last step to the floor of the main hall. He swung on the railing, his direction turning around to face his party as he proceeded forward, stopping at his sister’s head. He reached down and picked her head up by one of her pigtails, whatever was left of her life draining away onto the floor and the tiny, shiny black shoes the little boy had on. The boy kissed her forehead as well.
“Ringraziarla così molto, la Sorella.” His castrato voice chimed once more, her head making a thud as it hit the floor and the boy turned, facing the front door of the house.
He strolled forward, his mind suddenly becoming nervous and scared. The front door was open before him, and he did not know what to do. His Mother had always said not to go outside without supervision!
“Mr. Belial, Mama said to not go outside unless someone was holding my hand.”
”That is fine, young master. I will hold your hand as long as you hold mine.”
The little boy’s arm was suddenly engulfed in a black flame-like substance. His little, delicate fingers turned into claws of demonic origin, the black miasma swirling around as it reached his face. A breeze rolled by, blowing into the mansion as the boy stood at the front door. His dainty brown hair parted and out of that forest of follicles sprang his left eye. His fledgling orb was a black pool of death and destruction. Like an abyss, sucking in all life around it, rendering the blessed into the deviled. The little boy giggled as he skipped along and out of the house.
Years passed and that little boy grew up, always in hand with Mr. Belial as he went from country to country. He did odd-jobs, mostly attending funerals as a hearse-driver when he was old enough to get his license. He turned twenty years old one day as he fondled the music box in his hand, in his apartment, alone. He opened the box and gazed upon his mother's eye, kissing it lightly on its dried up iris.
The room grew cold suddenly. Rozenforte felt a presence other than Mr. Belial, and that's when it happened. The day he decided to live up to his end of the contract he had signed with Mr. Belial. Behind him, floating in the air was the exact likeness of his mother. Her spirit had been resting inside of the eye all this time and finally decided to show itself. Rozenforte's arm was immediately engulfed in a black miasma as his clawed hand shot out and slashed the spirit into strands, his mother's ghost turning into mist as it was absorbed into his palm, a fiery sensation shooting across his forehead. He writhed in pain.
He fell to the ground, his hands upon his forehead, and when the pain was released, he had freedom. He looked into the mirror. Upon his forehead was burnt a black link, like a chain. He felt empowered. He touched the link, and his head was filled with nostalgic memories of his childhood.
His mother screamed in his head.
A tear went down his cheek as he sniffed, laughing weakly. His strained voice echoed like a hollow legacy, “I love you, Mother…”
{Pictures}
