Life in RhyDin - Pictures, Introductions and More

[Mallory]

((Use this space to introduce a new character, go into greater depth about who they are and their backstory, write a blurb about what they might be up to in RhyDin, or share pictures or other inspiration for your character!))

[Cyrus Merrick]

Name: Cyrus Alexander Merrick
Birthplace: New Harmony, UNSC space
Birthday: May 10, 2537 (UNSC reckoning)

Vital Statistics

Age: 28
Height: 7'0"
Weight: 295 lbs
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color: Black

Distinguishing Features

Tattoos: UNSC Marine Corps emblem with the words 'Semper Fidelis', right shoulder; the numbers '117' in stylized text with the words 'Spartans Never Die', left shoulder blade; UNSC SPARTAN-IV Program emblem, right shoulder blade
Scars: Numerous

Personal Data

Strengths: As a product of the UNSC SPARTAN-IV program, Cyrus's body has been enhanced to beyond superhuman levels. Strength, durability, metabolism, perception, and reflexes have all been augmented in order to create the perfect soldier. Even before receiving the enhancements, however, Cyrus was already a master sharpshooter, a stealth infiltration specialist, and a brilliant battlefield tactician.

Weaknesses: He is a SPARTAN.

Relatives: Jason Merrick (father, deceased); Alice Merrick (mother, deceased); Colton Merrick (brother, deceased); Ashley Merrick (sister, deceased); Christine Merrick (sister, deceased)

Background Information

Factoids: Cyrus is very much the new generation SPARTAN-IV. Recruited from the UNSC Marine Corps where he served as a sniper, his rank upon recruitment into the SPARTAN-IV program was Corporal. Entry into the program changed his branch from the Marines to the UNSC Navy, and his rate was changed to Petty Officer Third Class, though in the program all soldiers were collectively referred to only by the title of Spartan. Currently, his rank is officially Senior Chief Petty Officer in the UNSC Navy, though he is listed by them (at this time) as MIA.

History: Cyrus Merrick was born on the UNSC space colony of New Harmony. Coincidentally, the night of his birth marked the start of a space battle between the UNSC Naval forces and the Covenant, a race of aliens bent on destroying humanity and fulfilling the prophecy of a 'Great Journey' to propel them into the divine beyond...whatever that meant. It wasn't until many years after Cyrus' birth that humanity would find out the horrifying truth behind this prophecy, and those events would in fact play another important part in his life.

After the space battle, life on New Harmony was fairly uneventful for the Merrick family. Jason, his father, was a low-ranking official in the colony world's branch office of ONI (Office of Naval Intelligence), and his mother was a schoolteacher. Cyrus himself was the oldest child, and while he was an obviously intelligent, athletic, and capable boy, he led a fairly ordinary life, and was happy with it. When, in his thirteenth year, his father received a transfer to the Office of Naval Intelligence headquarters, in the city of New Mombasa on Earth, Cyrus was understandably upset at having to move and lose all his friends (of which he had many), but not so much that he missed out on the exciting aspect of it. After all, he had never seen the homeworld of humanity himself.

He and his family settled into life in their new home readily enough, and it seemed like all was going perfectly. There was a war on with the Covenant, of course, everyone knew about that - it was in all the news. But that was worlds away, nothing to do at all with their life on Earth.

That is, until the day the Covenant came calling on their front doorstep.

October 21, 2552, a little over two years after he and his family had moved to the city, the Covenant attacked Earth and landed in the city. Cyrus was never certain of what happened afterwards. Someone told him they'd found him in the middle of his family and three dead Covenant Jackals, shock troops for the enemy. He only remembered two things clearly - he had killed two of them himself, the third almost causing his death in return...until he had been saved by the fortuitous intervention of Master Chief Petty Officer John-117.

Orphaned in the aftermath of the battle and subsequent destruction of his home, Cyrus decided for himself what his path should be, then and there. As the child of an ONI official, he was taken care of, his every need seen to - food, home, education, for the next three years, until he enlisted into the UNSC Marine Corps.

And there he excelled. It was as though he were made to be a soldier, a warrior. His superiors noted his skills, his determination, his drive to succeed, and they built on it, fed it, encouraged it to grow.

When - four years after enlisting - the SPARTAN-IV program was created and called for volunteers, he all too eagerly enrolled, remembering that long-ago soldier in his armor, the legend that was the inspiration for all that came after that fateful day.

And, once again, he excelled, far surpassing the expectations of even his most challenging instructors. A further three years later the former-Marine-turned-Spartan had reached the rank of Senior Chief Petty Officer, one pay grade below the famed John-117 himself.

And he could have gone even further, if not for an unfortunate incident which sent him further away from home than he had ever imagined being...

[Tempest]

The Coming of the Storm

Mademoiselle Tempest De Frossard


A sweet little modiste who has a bad habit of eating day to day and dreams of taking on the world and becoming a grande dame of the arts and society

A daring and dashing young aristocrat insisting upon making her own mark upon the world without relying upon the billions and billions of her parents estate

Glamorous, sensual, a woman of means and wit, a pen dipped in poison and blood

Educated classically, honed upon the new world fashions and manners, Mademoiselle Tempest adjudicates society and

A dashing and bold modiste steps onto the scene and makes her observations with wit and insight, holding up a gilt mirror to society. Mademoiselle Tempeste dares speak aloud upon rumor and whispers, and gives her unique slant upon those tasty morsels that splash upon the gossip pages and elevates them from mere gossip to social commentary.

Naturally, from Paris, born to highly educated members of the intelligentsia, educated in the finest institutions, elected one of the most desireable of debutantes, Mademoiselle Tempest has arrived. With her copyrighted catch phrase, KittyKitty MeowMeow, she will keep you up to the moment with the most salacious of details!

Auburn hair, violet eyes, slender and sleek as a Frenchwoman should be, a vivid personality and vivacious, lest ennui devour me.

“Juste à temps pour le juillet, notre e-tuteur français Sev partage quelques mots français que vous connaissez probablement déjà si vous parlez anglais! N’est pas?”


~~~~~

“Fuck I hate this town,” Molly Banes muttered as she finished writing. She leaned back in her desk chair and picked up her phone, waiting. Her room mate promptly posed at the door, a perfect skinny model sort with the cute French ‘do in auburn and blue eyes.

“I think you must love me because my beauty has gotten under your skin, yes,” Annette insisted as Molly took a few photos of her. Her French accent was adorable.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Annette, you’re a creepy airline stewardess. The only thing good about you is you pay the rent on time and you’re gone ninety percent of the time.”

“And, I often bring home strange and handsome men who happily will screw plain and chubby little you when they cannot have me,” Annette added, traipsing off to the bathroom, “And then they leave.”

“There is that. You leaving tonight?”

“Yes, once more to the Middle Kingdoms. I hate it there. The men are boring and fat, and the women smile and think their men are very charming.”

“You hate it everywhere, Annette,” Molly pointed out as she looked over her copy. Annette gave a little giggle.

“I even hate it in France. I overachieve, you know,” she twittered.

“Yes, I know. How do you say ‘shadow at noon’ in French?”

“There is Google, you know,” Annette responded.

“You’re actively French. If someone actually speaks French, I don’t want to look like I’ve been using a translator,” Molly replied, irritated. Annette rolled her eyes, then smiled.

“Un pantalon serpent á deux têtes. There is an accent upon the ‘a’ and a circumflex over the first ‘e’ in tête.”

“Thanks,” Molly replied ungraciously.

“Tu es cochon ennuyeux,” Annette responded with a smile.

Molly shuddered when Annette banged her way out of the little two room flat they shared. She finally uploaded her new persona, a few photos of Annette, and her first column to the New RhyDin Time's website.

“Even if I get rich doing this, I’m still going to need that air head. Ugh. Oh well. She does bring home handsome men to share.”

[Morgan LaLuna]

Bratty Bitches in Tight Britches

Morgan is a skinny little shit. Always has been. One of a pair of twins, he and his brother often went hungry growing up, digging in the trash down the road at a local restaurant to feed themselves. Mother slept often on her ratty couch, passed out in front of the TV from whatever she'd smoked, drank, swallowed, or shot up that day. Likely a cocktail of many. Father was rarely home, but when he came home, he was often angry at mother, and took it out on the boys. They quickly learned all the places their little bodies could fit where he could not reach them, until they were big enough to escape the hell hole alltogether. Morgan and Corbin stuck together, and protected eachother... Until they didn't. When they were 17, Corbin just... left. Morgan was alone, truly. They'd never made any real friends, even though they had enough contacts to keep the police department business busy for years. Mobsters, drug dealers, prostitutes, pimps, junkies, vagrants, crooked politicians... They all knew the brothers. The Prettyboy Twins, they were called. What services they provided, of course, was always hotly up for debate among certain circles. Some said they would seduce and blackmail the politicians.

According to stories, they delivered drugs, robbed particularly mean johns while they were cleaning up after some fun, pushed heavy concrete blocks into the river... Stories were endless about the two. Things only fell apart when they were sitting on a bench, sharing a stolen bottle of malted liquor, and The Man came. He said he had a job, and only needed one. It wasn't like they'd never been split for a job before, so of course... Morgan waved his brother off, planning to meet up later. The last thing he remembered was his brother walking away, pulling his long black hair into a high ponytail as he asked for details. For some reason, Morgan always saw The Man in his dreams as some kind of horrible angel, having taken his other half to heaven. Sometimes, he thought he could see his brother in his reflection, but it was just him. Eventually, he would come to work at a nightclub, and quickly lost himself in the lifestyle, drowning his feelings in drugs and drinks. Promiscuity, of course, was another wonderful release for the young man, eventually gaining him quite a reputation on his own, and making him a lot of money. He was doing fine. Until he wasn't.

More recently, he found himself realizing he wasn't in control, at all. The money wasn't his. The apartment wasn't his. And he'd had no idea, until he'd misbehaved. Then it all became very clear who was in charge, and how much it wasn't him. Boss threw him back to the bottom of the ladder, and god forbid any old clients contact him, even to check in. No matter what he did, it wasn't good enough. Never enough money. Never enough bodies in the club, and (of course) all his fault. And so he lives now. Of course... Without rewards, he'd started "misbehaving" even further, having fits of complete and utter disobedience. Disappearing. Getting totally wrecked at a completely different club and pissing on the DJ's booth. After he'd gotten bailed out, he damn near couldn't walk for a week, and hid in his old childhood home, long abandoned after Mother died of an overdose, and Father got into a shootout with police when they came to take nonexistent children and the family dog. He wasn't letting that fucking shepherd go any damn where, apparently, and died with three holes in his chest, one square in the temple, to show for his efforts. The dog was rehomed, presumably... Or likely put down. That beast hated kids. Fucking HATED them. And so the bullet ridden shithole that was once his hell became home, junkies that squatted there nice and quiet about his presence. He brought them free supply, sometimes. They'd share. Eventually, he'd run out of money. He always did. The fucker could barely read, and was sure he wouldn't be able to hold any kind of real job... And so back to twirling and tricking he went. A never ending cycle. And honestly? He doesn't even fucking care anymore. He knows what lines not to cross, when he's feeling particularly vengeful. Eventually, he'll willingly cross it... And then he'll be the concrete block being pushed by some poor street fucks into the river. Until then, though...

He's gonna have some fucking fun.

[Nico Strahd]

Name: Nicodemus Strahdanja
Nickname: Nico
Occupation: Unknown - Independently wealthy
Previous Occupation: President of Half Dead Motorcycle Club
Race: Nephilim (some similar characteristics of vampire)
Age: Appears to be late 30s possibly early 40s
Hair Color: Graying-Black
Height: 6'2"
Eyes: Pale blue/Silver veined with red. Wears a patch over his right eye.


Origin: ( Full background in Forums -Link: viewtopic.php?t=33148 )
Summarized version: Born in Texas to an average family, in 1970, to an average existence. Lost his mother to cancer and left his father for an enlistment in the U.S. Navy. Deployed with JSOC and would eventually be medically retired due to an IED blast. After substantial time healing Nico would reinvent himself within an outlaw motorcycle club located in New Orleans, LA. Was assassinated by a rival club after rising to the club's lead position, President. Was "raised" from death by his Uncle. His true lineage and purpose were revealed. The prophetic opposite, in many ways, to the second coming. In an alternate timeline, Nico lived out an existence where his reign lead to the destruction of the favored creation of the Almighty. A "reset" of some-kind sent Nico from that time and place to Rhy'Din. After a bout with his struggling memory Nico would come in contact with his Uncle once more. The exact happenings of that meeting are unknown but He has not been the same since.

[ValuciaSabet]

Name: Valucia Sabet
Other names: Valucia Sedai, witch, sorceress
Alias: A few in lands traveled throughout the years for her safety as well as the safety of others
Occupation: Aes Sedai, Blue Ajah (Westlands and lands beyond the White Tower)
Race: Appearing Human, with a twist
Age: Appears to be in her mid-to late 30's, by Human standards, but she's far older due to being Aes Sedai
Hair Color: Dark, dark brown -- appears black in most lighting
Eyes: The color of black pearls
Height: 5'6"

Few know her story, let alone any background in detail on the woman who moved as if she could ride a horse as fast as the wind, play knuckle-bones with the best of them, or dance in the courts of kings and queens without missing a step.

Few know it because she is more of a Watcher, then else while in the current lands and realms of the world of RhyDin. A few scholars know her. A few street urchins. But all serve a purpose in her gathering of information in order to know the lands betters. She is the one who bought land to the north-east, overlooking cliffs to the rocky shores and seas below. She bought it and called it Bulwark's Cove, for the purposes of RhyDin maps. There, all who are from the Westlands, her homelands and more, are welcomed there to rest, work at their sword play, and enjoy the Warders Hall for a meal or dance.

The Watcher enjoys that she has been in the realms of RhyDin, traveling back and forth from it and the White Tower of Tar Valon, for over a dozen years. Without a Warder in her immediate, public company these days, she read, writes, and watches the crowds at the tourneys, inn, and other places under the two-moon skies of RhyDin.

[Vlayden StarSky]

Name: Vlayden StarSky

Silvanesti elven mage, outcast by his people for studying under a powerful archmage of the Black Robes. Killed over a petty argument outside the RDI some 25 years ago when a Death Knight and patron of the Inn insulted his beloved and triggered what would become a duel to the death.

Survived death by arcane means, enchanting an amulet given to him by his former mentor and teacher with a piece of his own life essence. Resurrected by his own apprentice 25 years after his “death”, he now finds himself questioning his means of continued existence. Is he undead? A lich? Or simply returned whole by his apprentice’s diligence and loyalty?

Vlayden is 273 years old (298 if you count the last 25 years spent in the ethereal plane). He was initially delighted to be returned to corporeal being, returning immediately to the scene of his death outside the RDI. Not realizing the amount of time that had passed, he had hoped to find the woman he loved right where he had left her. But as he approached, he noticed the moon was in a completely different phase, the voices coming from the Inn were unfamiliar. He opened the door, hoping to see Emerald, but she was nowhere to be found. He left quickly, returning to a tower he had constructed as his home decades ago. It was where he had enchanted the amulet and trained his apprentice in the arcane arts. But the apprentice, like Em, had vanished. He was left with only questions. After casting a few spells and consulting the stars, he realized what had happened and how much time had passed. He could not find his lover or apprentice through any means of divination, and assumed the worst. Hoping to raise his spirits, he returned once again to the RDI. He knew there were always a variety of powerful mages and beings that were capable of feats beyond his own magics. Perhaps one of them could find Em or knew something of her.

If nothing else, it was the only home he could think of. The only place he might begin to put his life back together, such as it was.