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Messages - YOLF

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Name: Airyaman (Aliases: Erya, Copper Tower, Tarnished Magus)
Race: Sorcerer/Otherkind
Age: Some hundreds of years
Height: 2,2 m at his tallest and 1,8 m at the shortest, usually.
Weight: Somewhat heavier than his build in any given form would suggest.

Physical Attributes
Strength: Amazing
Agility: Exceptional
Constitution: Amazing

Magic: Very High
Sorcery is the ability to channel the power of the faeries and spirits to perform miracles, creating, transforming or destroying aspects of the world through intuitive disposition. A sorcerer's power can improvise numberless wonders, but it is not boundless. A caster of Airyaman's overbearing strength can perform lesser magics or momentary conjurations with consumate ease, the equivalent to Very Low and ephemeral Low effects, but proper spells are an art of effort and resonance. To cast them you need to make use of something which invokes the result you desire or the method you employ, and the more complex the effect the greater the focus it demands.

For example, a farsight spell requires a crystal ball or a mirror as a medium of vision, and to create a ward that will forcefully keep hostiles away you must physically mark a boundary first. To command a river's stream you call the spirits of the water with a chant or offering, and to curse someone you need a piece of them and a representation of what you wish done, while imbuing an item with magical protection needs the intent to be carved into it by craftwork or ritual. A glamour needs a strong image to use as a basis, and a travel spell requires a link or a medium to the destination.

The exception to these restrictions is a sorcerer's motif, the personal essence of his magic and inclination as a miracleworker. This is the resonance ingrained into a person's body and soul as a channeler of the power of the other world.

Airyaman's motif is "Tarnish", the idea of corrosion spreading over metal and of staining materials through an adverse reaction. This affinity allows him to subject things to corrosion both physical and spiritual, weaken the surroundings with severe metallic erosion that spreads from his person, and cover things with a greenish patina that acts as a medium to more complicated magic. He may also conjure and manipulate metals that are closely associated with tarnish, creating winding thorns of bronze or copper and raising structures of warped, verdigrised metal, while he can cast sorcerous flames from any of these things.

In his motif, he can easily invoke effects of up to High potency without any kind of ritual or notable casting time. He could wind his hand in a circle and conjure a wide cloud of razor-sharp metallic butterflies that could tear a group of soldiers to pieces, or merely will it to create curtains of emerald or brass vines that pursue a target or wrap around him in defense. More potent or complex sorcery still demands more, however.

Lasting creations of sorcery always require a minimal amount of ritual, and the more powerful the intended result the greater the time they demand; from hours to days of work, or efforts over exponentially longer amounts of time for grander and much more complex phenomena, such as those beyond his standard reach.

The Sight: The talent to see magic and the supernatural for what it is, and to perceive and interact with things that common people cannot recognize. Through this ability he can communicate and barter with the spirits and unseen forces that surround everything in the world and flock around him.

Other Abilities

Foreign Kinship: Airyaman is a being extremely close in nature to a creature of the otherworld, but on two points he differs; unlike those beings he is enfleshed and anchored to the material, and there is no land or group that his magic rightfully belongs to. Spirits and faeries feel a relation to him, but cannot recognize his remote origins.

Tarnished Body: Although it has biological functions close to a human being, Airyaman's body is made of living metals and stranger substances in concert with inhuman flesh. His horns or hair are emerald verdigris, his skull and limbs are alternatively formed by brass or run through with agate, and when revealed his scale-like skin is flecked in oxidized bronze. His blood is a silvery compound that is both acidic and toxic. When wounded, vitriol and cracks run from his injuries, but his unique constitution allows him to ignore degrees of organ damage that would be lethal to a human and walk off torn body parts, except for his brain or head respectively. This also means he'll recover from any injury that doesn't outright kill him over time, including regrowing limbs and organs.

Shapeshifting: When you have a unconventional fantastic body, changing shape isn't the most difficult thing in the world. Airyaman can rearrange the structure of his body in a limited fashion, transforming easily between two humanoid forms, one larger and more blatantly inhuman, bearing an animal-like skull, horns, and dark skin, and a smaller one, with a softer, more human-like seeming and mostly pale skin. Or he can assume a shape like a lion statue of stained bronze, adorned with curling horns and exposed joints like copper wires, where his Strength lowers to Exceptional and his Agility becomes Amazing. Of his humanoid forms, the smaller one is easier to assume when damaged, to conserve mass while healing. His voice tends to retain its unusually soft tone regardless of the form taken.

Enchanted Craftsmanship:
Airyaman is skilled with traditional crafts and has extensive experience making enchanted items. Over the centuries he's learned woodcarving, metalworking, and other techniques. His work is made superbly efficient and dispenses with more complex tools thanks to the aid of sorcery, and he imbues objects with enchantments and magical qualities through the inscription of runes. He is also adept at creating simple medicine and magic potions. Crafting more powerful enchanted items requires exponentially more work, as with sorcery, but also unique and mythically significant materials or potent ingredients.

Wisdom of the Magus:
In the time he's walked the earth Airyaman has learned a great deal of magical and mythical lore; he began from Zoroastrian wisdom, and expanded his knowledge into major traditions from Europe to Asia and even into Mesomamerican practices. He knows a lot about the occult, and he's appropriated practices from many magical traditions to round out his own.

Outer Shintai: If pressed, then Airyaman may unleash the inherent magic that holds his body together, reversing the structure of his alien soul to expose the immense power it possesses. He cracks gruesomely, bursting into a sky-reaching pillar of poisonous brilliance, and becomes an eight-armed brassed monstrosity with a mane of brilliant copper and innards of baleful fire spilling from a hollow ribcage. His possessions and clothes vanish temporarily.

His physical attributes become Fantastic/Amazing/Fantastic, and he loses anything resembling vital spots bar the inside of his skull, while recovering from damage that would deprive him of body mass exponentially faster, such that the common eye can observe the regrowth of limbs and bones. In this state he cannot wield sorcery, but his own magic seeps out uncontrollably, and manifests following his instincts. Fire and effects within his motif can spread continously from Airyaman as spontaneously-occurring phenomena of potency equal to High magic, and he is unfazed in the middle of this chaotic conflagration.

Outer Shintai can be maintained for no more than a hour before he collapses back into himself, making the state unusuable for a day, and he is likely to become afflicted with severe sorcerous strain in the aftermath the longer it lasts.

Familiar: A mythical otherworldly creature connected to Airyaman by a magical bond. Familiars partake of a magic user's power in exchange for their loyalty and own magical ability, allowing the sorcerer to make use of them as resonance for their spells and offload excessive strain from magic. When not physically manifest, Airyaman's familiar hides in his shadow or lingers over his aura. They also share each other's senses.

Nills the rakshasa, a tiger-like Hindu devil with clawed hands, vicious fangs, burning eyes and tussled fur.
Strength: Incredible
Agility: Amazing
Strength: Incredible

Magic: The rakshasa may use illusion magic to appear for all effects and purposes to be as small as a housecat, or as large as an 80 feet giant, though its true form is the size of a grizzly bear. The smaller the appearance the more harmless it seems, appearing nothing more than an ordinary animal at its shortest, while the bigger it is the more monstrous it becomes, its tallest like a terrifying devil titan wrapped in shadows and gleaming with power. This masks weight, volume and all else perfectly, acting nearly like transformation magic, but the rakshasa can only rely on its true attributes regardless of how it looks. This also allows it to create or bar passages in architeture and slightly transform the geography of alleys and streets.

Other Abilities:
The rakshasa has sharpened beast-like senses and can see through less than masterful illusions with ease.


Willow Staff: A staff made from a solid piece of Willow wood ending on an intrincately carved inscrutable canine head. It aids in communicating with the dead or warding them off, and also resonates with magic that treads in-between worlds.

Meteoric Vajra: A three-pronged tip double-sided club forged from meteoric iron. It is a weapon that symbolically resonates with the reinforcement of the mind and spirit, and enhances manifestations of indestructiblity and irresistible force.

Obsidian Knife: A short blade of mirrored obsidian. It is used as a mystical tool in blood sacrifice, and a resonant focus for divination and the casting of omens.

Origin: The sorcerer called by many the Copper Tower doesn't know where he came from. He hazily remembers a world of beauty and pain, and the sight of silver sands giving way to earthern ones amid humid mountains. There is where, a foreigner to himself and the world, he was found and sheltered by a wise one. There he learned truthfulness and will despite his strangeness, and his teacher named him "Airyaman".

Gold: He's allergic to the touch of gold, being that it is uncomfortable at best and painful with extended contact, while weapons of it leave sizzling, difficult to heal wounds.

Sets of 23: The number 23 has a certain influence over Airyaman. He cannot physically stand against a person brandishing a completed set of 23 objects, and boundaries or seals of 23 parts or which incorporate the symbolism of the number in a central fashion have the power to bind him until someone releases him.

Sorcerous strain: Channeling ambient power the way sorcerers do always demands compensation. The use of large scale sorcery or repeated channeling of power superior to High magic is most visibly draining to Airyaman. While a normal sorcerer might find their physical condition deteriorating with consequences from a high fever to damaged organs or  collapsing into days long sleep, he finds his body growing unstable and its spiritual balance thrown out of whack. At best, this damages the integrity of his form and warps its features, and at worst it locks his body into non-humanoid anomalous shapes and clouds his mind with alien urges. Control over his own magic is hurt relative to the severity. These effects can last for days if enough stress is accumulated, but might be relieved early by significant spiritual care.

Faerie Mischief: Drawing the attention of faeries and spirits means he's susceptible to suffering from willful acts of magic on their part, which sometimes causes inconveniences like pranks or small but impractical distractions.

Likes: Being called "a fairytale sorcerer", long naps, how easy wind spirits are, chewing on things
Dislikes: Hearing his titles, having his origins questioned, being outside the loop, shoddy craftsmanship


Leaving a girl alone without even a hint of what was to come after building her hopes all along. Rude. Rafalia looked all around her, then to the translucent shape of some of the magic bonds she could actually see, then to herself, then to the ceiling and back to herself.

After a minute, she whistled. Her loyal steed heard her call and slowly walked out of the shadows of the lab, coming up to rub its nuzzle against her hand. She smiled, and opened her palm, the only form of motion she could do.

Her abhorrent sword appeared like a shadow made solid and tumbled over, where the night-eyed horse caught it beween its teeth.

"Help me out here, boy," she asked. It promptly began to angle its head in order to hack at the restraints that held her, visible and invisible, one by one. All magics began to tear and fray beneath the touch of that blade.


Maybe it was better to stop her. Maybe he should have just kicked her shit in and killed her for being a psychopath. Would that have made him the psycho in this situation, when she hadn't done anything in front of his eyes? It was stupid to think she'd reconsider anything from such a short conversation, though, and it was stupid to expect unconditional altruism from him. The next time... he wouldn't close his eyes the next time.

Raikou stuffed his hands into his pockets and walked away.


So stop talking, fuck, we get the idea. He let out a raspy chuckle at her continued address of God. "I don't know him, and I don't give much of a shit," he said, flashing his teeth. "But I'd probably punch his mug at least once if I saw him."

It didn't take another second for the half-vampire half-angel to push her off, uncerimoniously scoffing. "So you probably want to leave before I break yours."

No reason for him to feel uneasy about it.


At last, something clicked in the girl's head.  His soul, this confidence in the existence of the devil and god, as well as a strange resentment towards those deities.  It all made sense.  In the moment of realization, Sera's eyes widened and she took a step back.

"Y-you..." she said, looking directly at his soul.  But, she couldn't stop talking now.  She couldn't back down. "I-I do it because I can keep them away from them!  Plus, I can keep them from suffering in the afterlife.  My body is better for them!  I love them!  They don't!"


Scratched record much? The strained, dangerous awkwardness of the conversation made Raikou look up, rubbing the back of his head as if to breathe away from it. But then he looked back, and took a step towards her.

"Who're you trying to convince?" He asked. If she did it for herself that was one thing, but. "I don't give a damn about what makes you happy in life, you could be glad to work sifting through trash for all it matters."

But what he couldn't, and wouldn't stand, were those bastards who thought they always knew better than others what their lives were about and tried to convince everyone else that they were in the objective right. Those who sought to destroy conceit while laden with the sin of conceit themselves, as a friend put it once. That kind of poetry didn't speak to him much, but he agreed. The hybrid took another step.

"But if you're going to take away people's choices and say that's in the right for all of them, then I can't tolerate you."


Because angels and demons with big plans in their obsolete celestial skulls never shut the fuck up about those two.

"Not being worse doesn't make you any better. So why do you do the same?"


"There are plenty of people who never asked for God or the Devil to meddle with their deaths," he said through an unnecessarily deep breath. "They didn't ask for you either."

Short of accusation or prejudice, simply heavy with the weight of personal belief and a heart that still considered itself human, his eyes pierced into her like beacons.


He really wanted to slap himself on the forehead for getting all relaxed earlier, but if he did that right now his shades might become casualties. Great. She was another loony.

"And you automatically know better than others do about their souls, huh," he groaned. "I'll pass on having mine taken."


She blinked at him, then smiled simply, walking ahead. Oh, Vanguard. "Such disdain. It hardly flatters your efforts," she said, though it made her laugh inside where others should have cried or raged.

The excrucian stepped easily onto the operating table, lying down comfortably.


"I am looking for the same thing as you.In simple terms, I need hero, a brave warrior who is willing to fight no matter the odds. A beacon of hope and strength persisting despite being surrounded by darkness." As his steps echoed over the halls, his shadow wastwisting and contorting behind both, expanding into some grotesque, massive silouhette of a thousand eyed creature.

The man smiled bitterly, looking forward. "Of course, anyone can be the hero of their story, but that is not the story I want to write. What I need is a more specific specimen, and you will help me find one."


She answered with a sly smile beneath her nighted eyes and jumped from his arms, touching down with a soft sound from her boots. "Those who despair will fall, and those who endure will be tested; until we find an ideal that shall not bend or break."

Rafalia fell in step with him, her voice a tower and her expression painted by calamitous edge. "Of course, I will help you find your hero."


"Hmph, you don't have great working relationships, do you?" She asked, twisting her lower lip. And yet he insisted on carrying her like a princess, a sham that demonstrated the casualness of his contradictory drives. It was the exact opposite of a bother though, so she simply leaned back and let it happen. "But I want to hear it. What kind of loud event are you getting together over here? Do you have a lot of associates? Your new prospective employee is asking pertinent questions!"


He rolled his eyes. Yeah, he could make his eyes shine too. He could jump to her probably quicker than she could notice and deck her in the jaw to force some sense into her dense skull too.

"Your hobby involves grabbing random people's faces and shredding them against splintered wood, only to scare them half to death with lethal implications? Take a good smell at your unprovoked crap before calling others out."

Still, Raikou crossed his arms, staring in expectation.


The only sign the girl even acknowledged his presence was a slight turn of her head.  "What do you want?" she asked.  Her ghost stood beside her, scanning the room nervously.


"I want to know that the hell was that," he answered simply, face contorting unpleasantly at her attitude. "What's with this piss reaction? If it fucking bothers you so much, stand straight and say what you have to say. Don't stir up shit and then run away bemoaning your life just cause you don't feel like being second-guessed."


For all his drivel, Rafalia knew the truth. Now that she had presented her services and mocked his test, he had set his sights on how to use her, and he wasn't going to let her escape. He would take whatever he could get, the smallest amount of power and assistance he could scavenge, and not let it loose from his grip until he had squeezed it dry of all it had to give. She didn't know the details, but he had lost numberless things up to this point, and he was not willing to let anything else go.

"Mmm, do they.... magical ones would be better," she answered. The rider nodded to herself, seemingly content, and uncaring of the harsh retorts he showered her with. "One day isn't too bad. But are you actually planning to tell me anything after that?"


If one could imagine an anthropomorphic concept of mythical doom pouting, that was the expression she made at that moment. Shaking her head, she dismissed her abhorrent blade, and said "I wouldn't assume you did all that on your own. Misunderstanding the nature of your allies can be even more dangerous than misreading your foes'."

Rafalia seemed to think for a moment on his request, then shrugged.

"Dissection would be both thoroughly inpolite and impractical, not to mention unpleasant, but if analyzing me would aid you, sure! Still, I don't recommend poking too deeply, for a variety of reasons. And most importantly, it would be an awful waste of resources if you had me strapped to a lab table all day instead of out and.... doing whatever." She furrowed her brows as she finished speaking, her expression becoming lightly creased.

"You can't expect very productive suggestions when you haven't told me anything about what you actually plan to do, yet. That's just obstuse. And so would be leaving dust to gather on my blade, my arrows, or my body. Chores are fine, but not very interesting."


All attempts to fill up her heart would falter. Any amount of mortal experiences would fail to amount to even a droplet in the void within, second only to the one behind her eyes. So she allowed it to spill into her mind, to show her exactly what his road amounted to, in the end.

It surpassed the expectations her foolish, forgetful self had of such an egotistic, unremarkable encounter. Before her was the walking gravestone to an ocean of sacrifices, a mountain of feelings wasted and shattered, and a rotting cosmos of resentment, unable to stop spinning. She saw it and delighted, buried principles rising up and coming alight.

How pitiful. How tragic! The utter conceit of this idealism, so heavy it would crush countless lives in the wheel of ambition to make mere dust into diamonds, even until the axis of time wore down! Rafalia couldn't help but reel back and laugh at the absurdity of his life.

"Haha, ohhh.... Vanguard, the one who's pointless is you. Do you understand?" The mind-freezing regard of a war god from beyond the cosmos, even reduced to a shared of itself, bore through him. But a smile of earth-splitting beauty graced him at the same time, and the emptiness in his chest receded as she spoke. "But I love that."

She stepped away, and a sword of the blackest night appeared in her hand, held vertically against the platform where they stood.

"I've decided I like you. And for that reason, I swear on this blade. So long as you strive through this impossible path, I will accompany you. And I will see that you travel this road, no matter how painful."

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