RWBY: The RPG
A role playing website based on Monty Oum's RWBY. Create your own character and weapon. Choose to protect the peace, or ruin it.
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| | | Nathaniel Dispar |  |
| | | Author | Message |
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| The author of this message was banned from the forum - See the message | Daemonblade
Posts : 185
Join date : 2013-09-19
Age : 26
Location : Spalding, England
|  Subject: Nathaniel Dispar  Wed Sep 25, 2013 5:35 pm | |
| CHARACTER
Given Name: Eric Hughes
Taken Name: Nathaniel Dispar
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Symbol The famous 'coming soon' symbol
Height: 6’4
Weight: 175 pounds
Appearance:
Nathaniel’s predominant colour is black. He dresses in black chinos with a dark grey shirt, and a black, ankle length trench coat trimmed in a dark purple and with his symbol emblazoned into the back. The coat is made of a strong Kevlar weave, and the coat tails have fixed lead weights to prevent it from flying up and getting in the way in the heat of combat. The collar of the coat is a rigid, upturned design reaching to the jaw line and base of the skull. He also wears assault boots and fingerless biker gloves, all armour plated, and which are the only kit he uses which could begin to resemble solid armour. As his fighting style comes from lightning speed and initiative, he has come to conclusion that the extra protection from plate isn’t worth the hindrance. He carries 25 rods for Teres-Aris in a thick silver belt around his waist, along with an attachable scope. He has additional bandoliers which he can carry if necessary.
Nathaniel’s eyes are a cold purple, echoing the detailing of his coat. His hair is short, black, and spiked, framing a sharp, angular face. His skin is a pale white, bordering on albino, and he has a single long scar along his left cheek and jawbone, half hidden by his collar. Physically, he is tall and athletically thin, cutting an intimidating posture. Whilst he has to be fairly strong to heft Teres-Aris, he is by no means a strong challenger in a brawl or wrestling match, his true power lying in lightning fast handwork and reflexes.
Personality:
Nathaniel is quiet and withdrawn, preferring solitude over socialisation. He avoids contact with others where possible, and says as little as possible, or sometimes nothing at all. He isn’t comfortable talking about himself and has a habit of walking away when prompted to do so. Living in a self imposed prison, and less responsive than a statue, people tend to give up on him and leave him alone. He’s spent so long telling himself he prefers it that way that he’s actually started to believe it.
Outwardly, Nathaniel might as well be carved from stone for all the expression he shows. His face never tends to leave the “detached” state. This causes most people to believe that he is cold, apathetic, perhaps even peaceful. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Underneath the shell simmers a quiet undercurrent of guilt and anger. Sometimes it screams at him, sometimes it whispers in his ear, but it’s a curse he can never truly be rid of. His temper could be likened to a thread, one which you would never realise you had snapped until his hand was clenched around your throat.
Nathaniel prefers to avoid fighting unless there is a good reason behind it (although his definition of a good reason seems to be drastically different from everyone else’s). Not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because he has a habit of taking things too far- combat is the only way he has found to take his mind off his past, but he has difficulty distinguishing between a friendly sparring match and a fight to the death. That being said, he would still much rather settle a dispute with a blade than a few words.
Having extreme difficulty in burying his past, Nathaniel regularly spends his alone time in quiet contemplation, trying to figure out how everything had gone so badly wrong. Any derogatory comments about family (such as “your mum” jokes) tend to send him into a blind rage, regardless of whether they were intended to hurt. Likewise, over the years he has developed a deep-rooted, irrational prejudice against those who use their aura offensively.
History:
*Spoiler Alert*
Also happens to be very long.
Eric spent the first half of his life as the firstborn child of a middle class family. He was a fairly typical boy- he had one mother, one father, and a little sister. He lived in a reasonable sized house, went to an average ranked academic school (where he achieved high grades in all subjects) and never even considered the possibility of becoming a hunter- the concept of violence seemed so far removed as to be almost a fairytale idea, up there with grimm and the world outside the kingdom. As he neared his teens, however, the inevitable began and he started to rebel. He didn’t want to be an office worker or a shop owner; he wanted to be something interesting, something different. Looking through the school library, he suddenly began to pay a lot more attention to the tales of heroes. It seemed to him that that was who he wanted to be. His mind set, he began his ‘training’.
Eric’s first weapon was nothing particularly special- that is to say, he taped a kitchen knife to a broom handle. While not much to brag about, it did, however, suffice as a mock spear. Over the course of months, he pored over every fighting guide he could get his hands on, stacking repetition on repetition until he had every move, every sequence near perfect. It wasn’t easy. Everything he did had to be a closely guarded secret- his parents would never allow him to risk his life, he had to wait until the choice was his to make.
After nearly a year’s hard work, he looked back at what he had achieved. His form was excellent, his strikes were fast and true, the kitchen knife had been replaced by a shaped aluminium blade he had cut down in the technology department, and yet there was still something missing. He still couldn’t perform huge leaps, fight with the elements, withstand huge hits or sense nearby enemies. When he looked at himself all he saw was a boy with a poleaxe- a boy who could use it well but at the end of the day, there was still nothing special about him. He needed something more, so he turned to the two forces the books spoke of- dust, and aura. Dust he knew he could never get hold of- it was too expensive, and he’d need some way to channel it. His only option, he decided, was aura- from what he had read it seemed that everybody had the capacity to use it; The only tricky part was to find out how.
It took him three weeks to find a book which actually detailed how to unlock aura, and months of silent concentration afterwards before he could finally manage it- it was like trying to find a power tap deep inside your imagination, but with no idea where it could be. After getting over the triumph of unlocking his own aura, the first thing he did was to try out it’s shielding properties. Slowly, and extremely nervously, he built himself up gently to the moment. He used pens, pencils, a pair of compasses, and slowly brought himself closer to the moment when he could put it off no longer. Forcing his eyes shut, he focussed all of his concentration on the knuckles of his left hand. One false thought, he knew, and he was done. He took a deep breath-the cleaver fell-and there was nothing. Prying his eyes open, preparing for the worst, he forced himself to look at his hand; there wasn’t a scratch on it. He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. He could successfully protect himself from blows- next he had to learn to project it.
Learning to project his aura was much like learning to unlock it- trying to harness a power that fled from your touch the moment you reached out toward it. However, having already been unlocked it was a lot less time consuming, and in a matter of weeks Eric was pushing weights across the desk with nothing but his mind. However, over the past year his training had begun to consume him completely. His grades had gone from exemplary, to average, poor, and then failing. His parents had had enough. They were sick of excuses, of him ‘adjusting’ or his ‘fluked fails’. They resolved to get to the bottom of it, once and for all.
For the first time since it arrived, his parents took no notice of the ‘do not enter’ sign hanging on his door. They stormed in, without a single word or knock, as he was training with his halberd. It was hard to say who was the most shocked- they just stood there staring. After a second, their faces grew dark and grim. “What”, his mother asked coldly “is that? What... do you think you are doing?” Eric tried to think of some answer, some way to get out of the trouble, but there was nothing. His mind was blank to everything but one recurring thought- this was his chance, the best opportunity to convince them that this was his choice. “I’m training”, he stated, with as much conviction as he could muster, “I’m going to become a hunter.”
His mother gasped, and went pale. He waited for her to say something, but then, all of a sudden, his father laughing condescendingly. “Become a hunter. Fear not world, my thirteen year old son... is training to become a hunter! Here is the hero we’ve all been waiting for, a scrawny boy with a pointy stick and an enormous ego! Give it up son, the last thing we need is some wannabe child playing warriors. You’ve got better things to do, like your exams; better things which might actually come true.”
Eric was struck by a sudden burst of desperate anger. “You have no idea what I can do! I’ve spent nearly two whole years training for this! This is my life and you have absolutely no right to tell me what I can and can’t do!” His dad looked him up and down. “So that’s it. That’s why your performance has been dropping. You’ve been practicing for a life of violence and killing. Fine. Die. Become that warrior you want to be, and die young. But know this- no son of mine will ever become a hunter. If you really do go down this path I’ll do nothing to stop you. But you will no longer be my son.” He began to walk away.
Eric felt a cold anger building inside of him, and it was like his mind began splitting at the seams. “You can do whatever you want. You can’t control me anymore. I’ve already unlocked my aura.”
His father froze. “What... did you say? What... have you done!? I’ll... I’ll...”
“Eric”, came a quiet voice from the corner, and he turned to look at his mother, praying for some form of support, “has anyone ever told you what a hero is? Have you never wondered what it takes to become one?” Her voice grew hard. “A hero is just like any other fighter, only too stupid to run away.”
At that comment, all control fled, every hope and ideal crashing down like a tower of cards. He felt something snap, deep within his mind. He felt... Empty. He felt... strength. Immense strength. The he felt... nothing.
When he woke in a hospital bed, nobody would talk to him- nobody wanted to be the one to break the news. Eventually, he was approached by a young, smiling woman. Her badge read ‘child support councillor’ and she told him, after a great deal of “you must be in shock’s” and “are you definitely okay’s” that his family was gone. His house had been levelled, she told him, in a gas leak. His mother, his father, his sister- all dead. No matter what they called it, Eric knew what had happened. He’d lost control of his aura. A fortnight before his fourteenth birthday, he had inadvertently killed his own family.
Time passed, and after being released from the hospital after what was described as a ‘healing time nothing short of miraculous’, he was sent to an orphanage and tough inner city school. He went into a spiral of depression, became introverted and isolated, two constantly warring forces stuck inside his head- anger over what he had done, and guilt because of it. The other students viewed him as a freak and a weirdo, and the few attempts to generate a friendship quickly stopped. He became the butt of jokes, the target of pranks, and in turn his avoidance of other people became an outright hatred. Then one morning, on the way to school, they took it to the next level.
He was following his normal solitary route, and everything seemed to be normal. They must of been watching for him though, because halfway down his shortcut (a dim, little used alley) they showed themselves. There were five of them in total, three in front and another two who must have been following to cut him off. They told him they wanted his lunch money but he knew how it worked- they were really after an excuse to beat someone. Nor did he intend to just sit there and take it.
The five of them together tore him apart, crushing fingers, blackening eyes, bruising everything they could get to. Curled defensively into a ball, his aura took most of the beating, but it still hurt like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was only afterwards as he lay there, blood and snot seeping from his broken nose, that he realised what had happened. Despite all the pain, or perhaps because of it, he had actually enjoyed himself. It was as though, for every punch he threw, for every blow he received, the agony inside his head was pushed a little further from his mind. The guilt, the anger, they could be temporarily staved off. It was almost too good to be true.
Eric quickly developed a reputation. He changed virtually overnight from the isolated weirdo to the loudmouthed thug, always willing to kick someone’s teeth in. When the others began to realise the difference they stopped insulting him and making jokes, and did their best to stay out of his way. When that happened he simply adjusted his temper to fit. Even looking at him the wrong way could be considered an offence. It took one year, two homes, and five schools before someone recognised his potential.
The fifth school he went to, he was given an offer- another student happened to be a ‘man on the ground’ distributing products for a wealthy businessman. However, the clients sometimes tended to get unruly and he was looking for a bit of muscle- muscle which was there to prevent fights but was more than ready to get his hands dirty when necessary. For Eric, it was a perfect opportunity- he actually got paid to go and fight people. And when the products turned out to be drugs, well, it wasn’t like it affected him.
With a pretty well paid job for a guy his age, Eric decided that it was time. The deals were turning sour more and more often as unrest grew through the area and hell, he had enough cash. He went to a nearby antique shop and picked up Fang, a rusty but workable halberd. Cutting the shaft half, he ground rails into the split halves so that, when a show of force wasn’t necessary, he could break it down and store it beneath his jacket.
It was during one particularly bad fight that a mistake was made. It started as a pretty regular deal gone wrong, bullets started flying; the dealer hit the deck and the two bodyguards prepared to do their thing. Eric wasn’t bothered- by this stage it had become an everyday occurrence, nothing to get worked up about. He ducked down behind a skip as his partner, another teen a few years older than him, ducked inside a doorway, checking and cocking a compact autopistol. They glanced at each other, caught each other’s eyes, and nothing more needed saying.
Eric broke cover, sprinting evasively down the path towards the three hostiles. One fell as he watched, shot in the throat with a pistol round. The second caught one in the shin, falling to one knee just in time for Eric to take half his head off with Fang before leaping forwards and burying it in the final ones stomach as he tried bringing his weapon to bear. Panting, ever so slightly out of breath and yet utterly exhilarated, Eric pulled to a halt. He rested one hand against the wall, eyes closed, letting the adrenaline run its course. Then there was a click behind him, just as a shout of warning rang out from the others.
He half turned, and was hit by a solid wall of heat. Thrown to the floor, he looked up and through a writhing cone of fire made out the silhouette of another figure, carrying something bulky and metallic in his hands- some asshole was hitting him with a dust thrower. Grunting, fighting against the kinetic force and the blinding heat, he rose unsteadily back to his feet. He took one step forwards, then another, and the silhouette began backing away. He took another, and another, growing more steady with every second and then suddenly he was free of it and bearing down on the shocked thug. He reached out, his aura still glowing white hot, and yanked the dust thrower from his hands, smashing it across his face once, twice, three times. When he fell to the floor Eric spun the dust thrower around and depressed the trigger, sending a torrent of flames across the screaming figure. After five seconds he let it fall to the ground. Turning from the charred corpse he found himself looking into the stunned expressions of the other two. “What?” he grunted.
It didn’t take long for them to call for him. While the dealer might not have known what aura was the higher ups most assuredly did. In the back of a blacked out van they questioned him- who had trained him, how had he unlocked his aura, who exactly was he? At the end of the journey they gave him an offer- the boss was always looking for good men and his talents were wasted looking after bottom rung dealers. They were after experienced mercenaries, and they were willing to take him on- full time, with a good salary and free training. For Eric, the offer was nothing short of a miracle. He entered the ranks the very next day. It wasn’t like anyone would find him worth the effort of searching for.
Time went on and he rose quickly through the ranks. The adults, who had once looked down on him with scorn, didn’t take long to realise their mistake. He grew a reputation as a fearsome fighter no one wanted to go up against, and people began calling him the prodigy. For Eric it was a time of plenty, of blood and violence and revelling in his ability to make others suffer. Although he still didn’t use dust and was traumatised by the aggressive use of aura (although anyone who mentioned it would have wound up dead) he became a demon with his Halberd, Fang becoming like an extension of his arm. Basic moves and routines over, he knew that they could only get him so far- he began to develop his own style, and he excelled.
It was during one morning that the next event of his career turned up; in four black vans and the revenge of a rival gang leader. In the fight that followed, The Boss was being escorted from the scene when, right in front of him a wall exploded into splinters and in stepped a combat exosuit. Eric didn’t think about what he was doing, he got between them and charged it down. Even shot three times by a high calibre chaingun, he still managed to reach it and drag the screaming pilot from the cockpit, before slitting his throat and letting his corpse fall to the floor. Only then did he allow himself to give in to unconsciousness.
The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t in the ordinary sick quarters- no, these were much cleaner and shinier. The second thing was that there was a man in a suit standing over him. Wow, he must have done something really bad if they were waiting for him to wake. But no, as the man introduced himself as one of The Boss’s personal representatives, it seemed the truth was far less believable. Somehow his reckless, suicidal charge had wormed him into the Boss’s favour. The man was here for two reasons- firstly to extend the offer of a place in the ranks of their esteemed leader’s highly elite personal guard. Secondly, as a token of gratitude, he had been given leave to grant one task or favour, so long as it were in his power. Eric wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. His reply to the first offer was a resounding yes (not only would he be one of the great, the pay was more than double what he was earning now) and to the second, he asked for a pencil, rubber, and a pad of paper. Then he asked them to leave him.
Through the entire night he worked, draft upon draft ending up in the bin. Fang had served him faithfully but it was far beyond its sell by date. He needed something better, something more befitting of a warrior of his status. He needed power, and he needed a symbol to go with it.
Come morning he was done. Papers scattered the floor everywhere around the overflowing bin, his eyes were red-rimmed from painkillers and sleeplessness, but in his hands he held two pieces more valuable than anything else he had ever owned. The blueprint for a sigil of a howling Beowulf, and a full 3D blueprint for a halberd/glaive/railgun- for Angels Fury.
When, in a week, he was finally back up to full strength, he was summoned to the ‘throne room’. There, in front of the very elite, he was presented, by the man himself, with his great weapon, sigil inscribed upon the blade. When he knelt he was a mercenary, an expendable soldier, a number. When he rose he was a man, a man whose name would be down in the gang logbook for as long as it stood. The only think he hadn’t anticipated was just how tough it was going to be.
While his swollen ego had no trouble seeing himself as a demigod, the others seemed to have different ideas. They put him under immense physical and mental training, things which he had thought could no longer pose any challenge. They broke him, then they broke him, then they flung the pieces to the furthest reaches of the earth. His ego shank away to nothingness, his arrogance left him for the first time in years. For the first time since he had discovered the release of violence he became... disciplined. It was as though he regressed from the brutal thug back to the isolationist loner. Only this time it wasn’t the anger and the guilt which led him to it- no, he had mastered them. They still screamed at him but this time he was ready for them. After the extreme mental conditioning he knew how to deal with dark thoughts, and he knew how to ignore them. Never again, he told himself, would he give in to them.
When finally he was their man, and theirs alone, only then did they teach him to fight. Everything he had ever thought he had known, everything he had ever learned, was turned upon its head. He was so used to being undefeatable that he had forgotten what losing was like- it wasn’t enjoyable, but he was simply too tired to dwell on it. They began to shape him into the great warrior he had always thought he already was.
It was funny really. The rise to the top of the food chain was the thing which made him want to leave it all behind. When they instilled their fearsome discipline into him the animal he had been turning into had been torn apart and scattered, and yet even as that was happening an old, familiar and yet vague feeling began to return. As Eric began to pull himself together, the shreds of a conscience slowly came crawling back. He began to look, to really look, at what he had done with his life.
When his family died- no, when he killed his family, he had lost all self control. He had lost himself in self pity, then later in self indulgence. He had become like one of the monsters he had wanted to slay, a mindless vessel subject to the whims of hunger and killing. It was like he had spent four years of his life in a trance and had only just opened his eyes. How many people had he killed? How many would he murder before one of them finally got lucky? After all, at the end of the day that’s what they were training him for. To murder anyone The Boss decided he didn’t like. All of a sudden he didn’t want to spend another minute in this gang. He wanted to be out by tomorrow.
And that’s when it hit him. The true depth of the hole he’d dug himself into. You couldn’t just quit the job; you knew too much. The only way he’d ever seen anyone leave was in a body bag. They had him now, he could run and they’d never stop hunting him. One of the elite guards, escape? Perhaps some nameless grunt, but with him the embarrassment would be too much. He could leave to sixty and they’d still be after him. He’d have to get a new name, a new look, an entire new identity. He couldn’t leave a single thread of his past to lead them to it. The best thing to do would be to leave the kingdom, but he wasn’t ready to live a life endlessly behind enemy territory, always looking behind his back for Grimm. And then suddenly, it was like a light switch had been flicked on inside his head. That dream that he’d held, of becoming a hunter- maybe it wasn’t so farfetched after all. He’d heard of the combat schools, he’d wanted to go to one himself, although he’d known that he’d never have the money. And he was what, nearly nineteen? He could still make that. Suddenly he was a blur of activity, searching for any schools like that close enough to run to. Okay, that one looked pretty good. Nice name. Beacon. Looked like the kind of place even they wouldn’t dare to attack. There was a problem though. He still didn’t have enough to pay for the tuition- all his money was in credit, and they could track it. Then a terrible, brilliant, daring, insane idea came to him. If he left, they’d hunt him to the end of the earth. So what was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t like it could get any worse. And The Boss’s money- all of that was hard copy.
The heist itself was ridiculously simple. The safe was designed to stop other gangs, not someone from his own. Eric didn’t even have to fight the guards, he just waved them away on some ridiculous pretence like moving it for The Boss. He took everything he could and ran, and he was away without a single alarm triggered or shot fired. After that, it took no skill at all to get his new ID- he had enough contacts to know where to go. Identity sorted, there were two things which still had to be sorted. His new clothes- and his new symbol. For this, he wanted something simple, something subtle. He wanted it to be the exact opposite of his previous one, to represent the change which had come over him. His design complete, he had it not only replace the one on Angels Fury, which he renamed Teres-Aris, but he had it woven into his specialised tailor made trench coat- which cost him more than most people earned in a year. Everything set, he set of towards ‘Beacon’, the school which would be soon be his home. It was going to be a long walk.
Nearly three weeks later, Nathaniel Dispar entered Beacon under a falsified school report and identity, paying with stolen money.
Childs play.
Strength
Extremely powerful in close range combat
Fights well against humans
Extremely fast
Relatively good at long range
Weakness:
Poor communication
No mid ranged capabilities
No dust usage and aura is limited to absorbing hits
No experience with Grimm
WEAPON
Name:
Teres-Aris
Primary Form:
Halberd
Secondary Form
Glaive
Tertiary Function
Railgun
Description
Teres-Aris is a tri-purpose weapon. It’s primary form is that of an 8.5 foot halberd, but it can also transform into a glaive, consequently adding a extra half foot in length. The blade is solid, heavyweight tungsten designed for maximum generation of momentum, while the shaft is a lightweight aluminium alloy, allowing for rapid, flowing attack and defence routines.
The shaft itself is hollow, and functions as a MAR (Magnetic Accelerator Rifle, also known as a railgun), a smaller, handheld version of a MAC. The MAR is a single shot, high recoil weapon, and the extreme bottom of the shaft folds out into a rifle stock. It consists of a series of a series of high powered magnetic rings leading all down the barrel, and a single push/ hold magnet at the end to hold the ammunition in place or rapidly repel it. When inactive, the polarity locks the ammunition to the rear of the barrel and can hold it there regardless of gravity or g-force. When the trigger (located about a third of the way up the shaft) is pulled, the polarity of the magnets is reversed, each within a nanosecond of the previous, forcing the ammunition along the barrel at an extreme acceleration gradient before it leaves the barrel in excess of three times the speed of sound. Consequently, shots from the MAR are virtually impossible to block or dodge, the best tactic simply being to get out of the way before a shot is fired.
The ammunition itself has no special properties- it fires solid steel rods, about 8 inches long and half an inch in diameter, inserted into the barrel on the opposite side to the trigger at about half a foot from the bottom end of the shaft. They have tapered points for increased penetration and aerodynamics, but most of the armour piercing potential comes from travelling at 1200 m/s. While the weapon is configured to fire steel rods, there is no reason why it couldn’t fire other metallic objects with a little adjustment.
Due to the speed of the projectiles fired, Nathaniel is forced to wear special noise cancelling headphones whenever he fires, as prolonged exposure to the pressure waves can rupture the eardrums and cause permanent deafness. You know things are getting serious when he puts on his purple-black headset.
The MAR is not a weapon to be trifled with. Its power cannot be reduced, it cannot simply ‘scratch’ an opponent, and it was never intended with half measures in mind. As such, it can never be used in any friendly sparring matches, tournaments, training fights or just generally anything which doesn’t result in the inevitable death of the loser.
Nathaniel carries around a 12x sniper scope which he can attach to a rail mount on Teres-Aris.
History:
Most of the history is in the character history. Teres-Aris was origionally named Angels Fury and carried the symbol of a howling beowulf. Although Nathaniel designed it himself it was sent to a weaponsmiths to be created. When Nathaniel left the gang he renamed it Teres-Aris and changed the symbol to support his new identity. | |
| | | | Admin
Admin
Posts : 5
Join date : 2013-08-25
| | Subject: Re: Nathaniel Dispar Wed Sep 25, 2013 6:02 pm | |
| Well.... the History is a little short. I think you could use more detail.
Just kidding, I didn't actually read that (yet)
Everything looks good. Approved.
edit: probably the only approval that will be done from this account.... feel special. | |
| | | | | The author of this message was banned from the forum - See the message | Daemonblade
Posts : 185
Join date : 2013-09-19
Age : 26
Location : Spalding, England
| | Subject: Re: Nathaniel Dispar Wed Sep 25, 2013 6:09 pm | |
| Great, Thanks a lot! Took a while but I got it done in time for the upcoming initiation.  | |
| | | | Kooplah
Head Admin
Posts : 1380
Join date : 2013-09-05
| | Subject: Re: Nathaniel Dispar Sun Nov 03, 2013 3:11 pm | |
| - Spoiler:
CHARACTER
Given Name: Eric Hughes
Taken Name: Nathaniel Dispar
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Symbol The famous 'coming soon' symbol
Height: 6’4
Weight: 175 pounds
Appearance:
Nathaniel’s predominant colour is black. He dresses in black chinos with a dark grey shirt, and a black, ankle length trench coat trimmed in a dark purple and with his symbol emblazoned into the back. The coat is made of a strong Kevlar weave, and the coat tails have fixed lead weights to prevent it from flying up and getting in the way in the heat of combat. The collar of the coat is a rigid, upturned design reaching to the jaw line and base of the skull. He also wears assault boots and fingerless biker gloves, all armour plated, and which are the only kit he uses which could begin to resemble solid armour. As his fighting style comes from lightning speed and initiative, he has come to conclusion that the extra protection from plate isn’t worth the hindrance. He carries 25 rods for Teres-Aris in a thick silver belt around his waist, along with an attachable scope. He has additional bandoliers which he can carry if necessary.
Nathaniel’s eyes are a cold purple, echoing the detailing of his coat. His hair is short, black, and spiked, framing a sharp, angular face. His skin is a pale white, bordering on albino, and he has a single long scar along his left cheek and jawbone, half hidden by his collar. Physically, he is tall and athletically thin, cutting an intimidating posture. Whilst he has to be fairly strong to heft Teres-Aris, he is by no means a strong challenger in a brawl or wrestling match, his true power lying in lightning fast handwork and reflexes.
Personality:
Nathaniel is quiet and withdrawn, preferring solitude over socialisation. He avoids contact with others where possible, and says as little as possible, or sometimes nothing at all. He isn’t comfortable talking about himself and has a habit of walking away when prompted to do so. Living in a self imposed prison, and less responsive than a statue, people tend to give up on him and leave him alone. He’s spent so long telling himself he prefers it that way that he’s actually started to believe it.
Outwardly, Nathaniel might as well be carved from stone for all the expression he shows. His face never tends to leave the “detached” state. This causes most people to believe that he is cold, apathetic, perhaps even peaceful. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Underneath the shell simmers a quiet undercurrent of guilt and anger. Sometimes it screams at him, sometimes it whispers in his ear, but it’s a curse he can never truly be rid of. His temper could be likened to a thread, one which you would never realise you had snapped until his hand was clenched around your throat.
Nathaniel prefers to avoid fighting unless there is a good reason behind it (although his definition of a good reason seems to be drastically different from everyone else’s). Not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because he has a habit of taking things too far- combat is the only way he has found to take his mind off his past, but he has difficulty distinguishing between a friendly sparring match and a fight to the death. That being said, he would still much rather settle a dispute with a blade than a few words.
Having extreme difficulty in burying his past, Nathaniel regularly spends his alone time in quiet contemplation, trying to figure out how everything had gone so badly wrong. Any derogatory comments about family (such as “your mum” jokes) tend to send him into a blind rage, regardless of whether they were intended to hurt. Likewise, over the years he has developed a deep-rooted, irrational prejudice against those who use their aura offensively.
History:
*Spoiler Alert*
Also happens to be very long.
Eric spent the first half of his life as the firstborn child of a middle class family. He was a fairly typical boy- he had one mother, one father, and a little sister. He lived in a reasonable sized house, went to an average ranked academic school (where he achieved high grades in all subjects) and never even considered the possibility of becoming a hunter- the concept of violence seemed so far removed as to be almost a fairytale idea, up there with grimm and the world outside the kingdom. As he neared his teens, however, the inevitable began and he started to rebel. He didn’t want to be an office worker or a shop owner; he wanted to be something interesting, something different. Looking through the school library, he suddenly began to pay a lot more attention to the tales of heroes. It seemed to him that that was who he wanted to be. His mind set, he began his ‘training’.
Eric’s first weapon was nothing particularly special- that is to say, he taped a kitchen knife to a broom handle. While not much to brag about, it did, however, suffice as a mock spear. Over the course of months, he pored over every fighting guide he could get his hands on, stacking repetition on repetition until he had every move, every sequence near perfect. It wasn’t easy. Everything he did had to be a closely guarded secret- his parents would never allow him to risk his life, he had to wait until the choice was his to make.
After nearly a year’s hard work, he looked back at what he had achieved. His form was excellent, his strikes were fast and true, the kitchen knife had been replaced by a shaped aluminium blade he had cut down in the technology department, and yet there was still something missing. He still couldn’t perform huge leaps, fight with the elements, withstand huge hits or sense nearby enemies. When he looked at himself all he saw was a boy with a poleaxe- a boy who could use it well but at the end of the day, there was still nothing special about him. He needed something more, so he turned to the two forces the books spoke of- dust, and aura. Dust he knew he could never get hold of- it was too expensive, and he’d need some way to channel it. His only option, he decided, was aura- from what he had read it seemed that everybody had the capacity to use it; The only tricky part was to find out how.
It took him three weeks to find a book which actually detailed how to unlock aura, and months of silent concentration afterwards before he could finally manage it- it was like trying to find a power tap deep inside your imagination, but with no idea where it could be. After getting over the triumph of unlocking his own aura, the first thing he did was to try out it’s shielding properties. Slowly, and extremely nervously, he built himself up gently to the moment. He used pens, pencils, a pair of compasses, and slowly brought himself closer to the moment when he could put it off no longer. Forcing his eyes shut, he focussed all of his concentration on the knuckles of his left hand. One false thought, he knew, and he was done. He took a deep breath-the cleaver fell-and there was nothing. Prying his eyes open, preparing for the worst, he forced himself to look at his hand; there wasn’t a scratch on it. He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. He could successfully protect himself from blows- next he had to learn to project it.
Learning to project his aura was much like learning to unlock it- trying to harness a power that fled from your touch the moment you reached out toward it. However, having already been unlocked it was a lot less time consuming, and in a matter of weeks Eric was pushing weights across the desk with nothing but his mind. However, over the past year his training had begun to consume him completely. His grades had gone from exemplary, to average, poor, and then failing. His parents had had enough. They were sick of excuses, of him ‘adjusting’ or his ‘fluked fails’. They resolved to get to the bottom of it, once and for all.
For the first time since it arrived, his parents took no notice of the ‘do not enter’ sign hanging on his door. They stormed in, without a single word or knock, as he was training with his halberd. It was hard to say who was the most shocked- they just stood there staring. After a second, their faces grew dark and grim. “What”, his mother asked coldly “is that? What... do you think you are doing?” Eric tried to think of some answer, some way to get out of the trouble, but there was nothing. His mind was blank to everything but one recurring thought- this was his chance, the best opportunity to convince them that this was his choice. “I’m training”, he stated, with as much conviction as he could muster, “I’m going to become a hunter.”
His mother gasped, and went pale. He waited for her to say something, but then, all of a sudden, his father laughing condescendingly. “Become a hunter. Fear not world, my thirteen year old son... is training to become a hunter! Here is the hero we’ve all been waiting for, a scrawny boy with a pointy stick and an enormous ego! Give it up son, the last thing we need is some wannabe child playing warriors. You’ve got better things to do, like your exams; better things which might actually come true.”
Eric was struck by a sudden burst of desperate anger. “You have no idea what I can do! I’ve spent nearly two whole years training for this! This is my life and you have absolutely no right to tell me what I can and can’t do!” His dad looked him up and down. “So that’s it. That’s why your performance has been dropping. You’ve been practicing for a life of violence and killing. Fine. Die. Become that warrior you want to be, and die young. But know this- no son of mine will ever become a hunter. If you really do go down this path I’ll do nothing to stop you. But you will no longer be my son.” He began to walk away.
Eric felt a cold anger building inside of him, and it was like his mind began splitting at the seams. “You can do whatever you want. You can’t control me anymore. I’ve already unlocked my aura.”
His father froze. “What... did you say? What... have you done!? I’ll... I’ll...”
“Eric”, came a quiet voice from the corner, and he turned to look at his mother, praying for some form of support, “has anyone ever told you what a hero is? Have you never wondered what it takes to become one?” Her voice grew hard. “A hero is just like any other fighter, only too stupid to run away.”
At that comment, all control fled, every hope and ideal crashing down like a tower of cards. He felt something snap, deep within his mind. He felt... Empty. He felt... strength. Immense strength. The he felt... nothing.
When he woke in a hospital bed, nobody would talk to him- nobody wanted to be the one to break the news. Eventually, he was approached by a young, smiling woman. Her badge read ‘child support councillor’ and she told him, after a great deal of “you must be in shock’s” and “are you definitely okay’s” that his family was gone. His house had been levelled, she told him, in a gas leak. His mother, his father, his sister- all dead. No matter what they called it, Eric knew what had happened. He’d lost control of his aura. A fortnight before his fourteenth birthday, he had inadvertently killed his own family.
Time passed, and after being released from the hospital after what was described as a ‘healing time nothing short of miraculous’, he was sent to an orphanage and tough inner city school. He went into a spiral of depression, became introverted and isolated, two constantly warring forces stuck inside his head- anger over what he had done, and guilt because of it. The other students viewed him as a freak and a weirdo, and the few attempts to generate a friendship quickly stopped. He became the butt of jokes, the target of pranks, and in turn his avoidance of other people became an outright hatred. Then one morning, on the way to school, they took it to the next level.
He was following his normal solitary route, and everything seemed to be normal. They must of been watching for him though, because halfway down his shortcut (a dim, little used alley) they showed themselves. There were five of them in total, three in front and another two who must have been following to cut him off. They told him they wanted his lunch money but he knew how it worked- they were really after an excuse to beat someone. Nor did he intend to just sit there and take it.
The five of them together tore him apart, crushing fingers, blackening eyes, bruising everything they could get to. Curled defensively into a ball, his aura took most of the beating, but it still hurt like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was only afterwards as he lay there, blood and snot seeping from his broken nose, that he realised what had happened. Despite all the pain, or perhaps because of it, he had actually enjoyed himself. It was as though, for every punch he threw, for every blow he received, the agony inside his head was pushed a little further from his mind. The guilt, the anger, they could be temporarily staved off. It was almost too good to be true.
Eric quickly developed a reputation. He changed virtually overnight from the isolated weirdo to the loudmouthed thug, always willing to kick someone’s teeth in. When the others began to realise the difference they stopped insulting him and making jokes, and did their best to stay out of his way. When that happened he simply adjusted his temper to fit. Even looking at him the wrong way could be considered an offence. It took one year, two homes, and five schools before someone recognised his potential.
The fifth school he went to, he was given an offer- another student happened to be a ‘man on the ground’ distributing products for a wealthy businessman. However, the clients sometimes tended to get unruly and he was looking for a bit of muscle- muscle which was there to prevent fights but was more than ready to get his hands dirty when necessary. For Eric, it was a perfect opportunity- he actually got paid to go and fight people. And when the products turned out to be drugs, well, it wasn’t like it affected him.
With a pretty well paid job for a guy his age, Eric decided that it was time. The deals were turning sour more and more often as unrest grew through the area and hell, he had enough cash. He went to a nearby antique shop and picked up Fang, a rusty but workable halberd. Cutting the shaft half, he ground rails into the split halves so that, when a show of force wasn’t necessary, he could break it down and store it beneath his jacket.
It was during one particularly bad fight that a mistake was made. It started as a pretty regular deal gone wrong, bullets started flying; the dealer hit the deck and the two bodyguards prepared to do their thing. Eric wasn’t bothered- by this stage it had become an everyday occurrence, nothing to get worked up about. He ducked down behind a skip as his partner, another teen a few years older than him, ducked inside a doorway, checking and cocking a compact autopistol. They glanced at each other, caught each other’s eyes, and nothing more needed saying.
Eric broke cover, sprinting evasively down the path towards the three hostiles. One fell as he watched, shot in the throat with a pistol round. The second caught one in the shin, falling to one knee just in time for Eric to take half his head off with Fang before leaping forwards and burying it in the final ones stomach as he tried bringing his weapon to bear. Panting, ever so slightly out of breath and yet utterly exhilarated, Eric pulled to a halt. He rested one hand against the wall, eyes closed, letting the adrenaline run its course. Then there was a click behind him, just as a shout of warning rang out from the others.
He half turned, and was hit by a solid wall of heat. Thrown to the floor, he looked up and through a writhing cone of fire made out the silhouette of another figure, carrying something bulky and metallic in his hands- some asshole was hitting him with a dust thrower. Grunting, fighting against the kinetic force and the blinding heat, he rose unsteadily back to his feet. He took one step forwards, then another, and the silhouette began backing away. He took another, and another, growing more steady with every second and then suddenly he was free of it and bearing down on the shocked thug. He reached out, his aura still glowing white hot, and yanked the dust thrower from his hands, smashing it across his face once, twice, three times. When he fell to the floor Eric spun the dust thrower around and depressed the trigger, sending a torrent of flames across the screaming figure. After five seconds he let it fall to the ground. Turning from the charred corpse he found himself looking into the stunned expressions of the other two. “What?” he grunted.
It didn’t take long for them to call for him. While the dealer might not have known what aura was the higher ups most assuredly did. In the back of a blacked out van they questioned him- who had trained him, how had he unlocked his aura, who exactly was he? At the end of the journey they gave him an offer- the boss was always looking for good men and his talents were wasted looking after bottom rung dealers. They were after experienced mercenaries, and they were willing to take him on- full time, with a good salary and free training. For Eric, the offer was nothing short of a miracle. He entered the ranks the very next day. It wasn’t like anyone would find him worth the effort of searching for.
Time went on and he rose quickly through the ranks. The adults, who had once looked down on him with scorn, didn’t take long to realise their mistake. He grew a reputation as a fearsome fighter no one wanted to go up against, and people began calling him the prodigy. For Eric it was a time of plenty, of blood and violence and revelling in his ability to make others suffer. Although he still didn’t use dust and was traumatised by the aggressive use of aura (although anyone who mentioned it would have wound up dead) he became a demon with his Halberd, Fang becoming like an extension of his arm. Basic moves and routines over, he knew that they could only get him so far- he began to develop his own style, and he excelled.
It was during one morning that the next event of his career turned up; in four black vans and the revenge of a rival gang leader. In the fight that followed, The Boss was being escorted from the scene when, right in front of him a wall exploded into splinters and in stepped a combat exosuit. Eric didn’t think about what he was doing, he got between them and charged it down. Even shot three times by a high calibre chaingun, he still managed to reach it and drag the screaming pilot from the cockpit, before slitting his throat and letting his corpse fall to the floor. Only then did he allow himself to give in to unconsciousness.
The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t in the ordinary sick quarters- no, these were much cleaner and shinier. The second thing was that there was a man in a suit standing over him. Wow, he must have done something really bad if they were waiting for him to wake. But no, as the man introduced himself as one of The Boss’s personal representatives, it seemed the truth was far less believable. Somehow his reckless, suicidal charge had wormed him into the Boss’s favour. The man was here for two reasons- firstly to extend the offer of a place in the ranks of their esteemed leader’s highly elite personal guard. Secondly, as a token of gratitude, he had been given leave to grant one task or favour, so long as it were in his power. Eric wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. His reply to the first offer was a resounding yes (not only would he be one of the great, the pay was more than double what he was earning now) and to the second, he asked for a pencil, rubber, and a pad of paper. Then he asked them to leave him.
Through the entire night he worked, draft upon draft ending up in the bin. Fang had served him faithfully but it was far beyond its sell by date. He needed something better, something more befitting of a warrior of his status. He needed power, and he needed a symbol to go with it.
Come morning he was done. Papers scattered the floor everywhere around the overflowing bin, his eyes were red-rimmed from painkillers and sleeplessness, but in his hands he held two pieces more valuable than anything else he had ever owned. The blueprint for a sigil of a howling Beowulf, and a full 3D blueprint for a halberd/glaive/railgun- for Angels Fury.
When, in a week, he was finally back up to full strength, he was summoned to the ‘throne room’. There, in front of the very elite, he was presented, by the man himself, with his great weapon, sigil inscribed upon the blade. When he knelt he was a mercenary, an expendable soldier, a number. When he rose he was a man, a man whose name would be down in the gang logbook for as long as it stood. The only think he hadn’t anticipated was just how tough it was going to be.
While his swollen ego had no trouble seeing himself as a demigod, the others seemed to have different ideas. They put him under immense physical and mental training, things which he had thought could no longer pose any challenge. They broke him, then they broke him, then they flung the pieces to the furthest reaches of the earth. His ego shank away to nothingness, his arrogance left him for the first time in years. For the first time since he had discovered the release of violence he became... disciplined. It was as though he regressed from the brutal thug back to the isolationist loner. Only this time it wasn’t the anger and the guilt which led him to it- no, he had mastered them. They still screamed at him but this time he was ready for them. After the extreme mental conditioning he knew how to deal with dark thoughts, and he knew how to ignore them. Never again, he told himself, would he give in to them.
When finally he was their man, and theirs alone, only then did they teach him to fight. Everything he had ever thought he had known, everything he had ever learned, was turned upon its head. He was so used to being undefeatable that he had forgotten what losing was like- it wasn’t enjoyable, but he was simply too tired to dwell on it. They began to shape him into the great warrior he had always thought he already was.
It was funny really. The rise to the top of the food chain was the thing which made him want to leave it all behind. When they instilled their fearsome discipline into him the animal he had been turning into had been torn apart and scattered, and yet even as that was happening an old, familiar and yet vague feeling began to return. As Eric began to pull himself together, the shreds of a conscience slowly came crawling back. He began to look, to really look, at what he had done with his life.
When his family died- no, when he killed his family, he had lost all self control. He had lost himself in self pity, then later in self indulgence. He had become like one of the monsters he had wanted to slay, a mindless vessel subject to the whims of hunger and killing. It was like he had spent four years of his life in a trance and had only just opened his eyes. How many people had he killed? How many would he murder before one of them finally got lucky? After all, at the end of the day that’s what they were training him for. To murder anyone The Boss decided he didn’t like. All of a sudden he didn’t want to spend another minute in this gang. He wanted to be out by tomorrow.
And that’s when it hit him. The true depth of the hole he’d dug himself into. You couldn’t just quit the job; you knew too much. The only way he’d ever seen anyone leave was in a body bag. They had him now, he could run and they’d never stop hunting him. One of the elite guards, escape? Perhaps some nameless grunt, but with him the embarrassment would be too much. He could leave to sixty and they’d still be after him. He’d have to get a new name, a new look, an entire new identity. He couldn’t leave a single thread of his past to lead them to it. The best thing to do would be to leave the kingdom, but he wasn’t ready to live a life endlessly behind enemy territory, always looking behind his back for Grimm. And then suddenly, it was like a light switch had been flicked on inside his head. That dream that he’d held, of becoming a hunter- maybe it wasn’t so farfetched after all. He’d heard of the combat schools, he’d wanted to go to one himself, although he’d known that he’d never have the money. And he was what, nearly nineteen? He could still make that. Suddenly he was a blur of activity, searching for any schools like that close enough to run to. Okay, that one looked pretty good. Nice name. Beacon. Looked like the kind of place even they wouldn’t dare to attack. There was a problem though. He still didn’t have enough to pay for the tuition- all his money was in credit, and they could track it. Then a terrible, brilliant, daring, insane idea came to him. If he left, they’d hunt him to the end of the earth. So what was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t like it could get any worse. And The Boss’s money- all of that was hard copy.
The heist itself was ridiculously simple. The safe was designed to stop other gangs, not someone from his own. Eric didn’t even have to fight the guards, he just waved them away on some ridiculous pretence like moving it for The Boss. He took everything he could and ran, and he was away without a single alarm triggered or shot fired. After that, it took no skill at all to get his new ID- he had enough contacts to know where to go. Identity sorted, there were two things which still had to be sorted. His new clothes- and his new symbol. For this, he wanted something simple, something subtle. He wanted it to be the exact opposite of his previous one, to represent the change which had come over him. His design complete, he had it not only replace the one on Angels Fury, which he renamed Teres-Aris, but he had it woven into his specialised tailor made trench coat- which cost him more than most people earned in a year. Everything set, he set of towards ‘Beacon’, the school which would be soon be his home. It was going to be a long walk.
Nearly three weeks later, Nathaniel Dispar entered Beacon under a falsified school report and identity, paying with stolen money.
Childs play.
Strength
Extremely powerful in close range combat
Fights well against humans
Extremely fast
Relatively good at long range
Weakness:
Poor communication
No mid ranged capabilities
No dust usage and aura is limited to absorbing hits
No experience with Grimm
WEAPON
Name:
Teres-Aris
Primary Form:
Halberd
Secondary Form
Glaive
Tertiary Function
Railgun
Description
Teres-Aris is a tri-purpose weapon. It’s primary form is that of an 8.5 foot halberd, but it can also transform into a glaive, consequently adding a extra half foot in length. The blade is solid, heavyweight tungsten designed for maximum generation of momentum, while the shaft is a lightweight aluminium alloy, allowing for rapid, flowing attack and defence routines.
The shaft itself is hollow, and functions as a MAR (Magnetic Accelerator Rifle, also known as a railgun), a smaller, handheld version of a MAC. The MAR is a single shot, high recoil weapon, and the extreme bottom of the shaft folds out into a rifle stock. It consists of a series of a series of high powered magnetic rings leading all down the barrel, and a single push/ hold magnet at the end to hold the ammunition in place or rapidly repel it. When inactive, the polarity locks the ammunition to the rear of the barrel and can hold it there regardless of gravity or g-force. When the trigger (located about a third of the way up the shaft) is pulled, the polarity of the magnets is reversed, each within a nanosecond of the previous, forcing the ammunition along the barrel at an extreme acceleration gradient before it leaves the barrel in excess of three times the speed of sound. Consequently, shots from the MAR are virtually impossible to block or dodge, the best tactic simply being to get out of the way before a shot is fired.
The ammunition itself has no special properties- it fires solid steel rods, about 8 inches long and half an inch in diameter, inserted into the barrel on the opposite side to the trigger at about half a foot from the bottom end of the shaft. They have tapered points for increased penetration and aerodynamics, but most of the armour piercing potential comes from travelling at 1200 m/s. While the weapon is configured to fire steel rods, there is no reason why it couldn’t fire other metallic objects with a little adjustment.
Due to the speed of the projectiles fired, Nathaniel is forced to wear special noise cancelling headphones whenever he fires, as prolonged exposure to the pressure waves can rupture the eardrums and cause permanent deafness. You know things are getting serious when he puts on his purple-black headset.
The MAR is not a weapon to be trifled with. Its power cannot be reduced, it cannot simply ‘scratch’ an opponent, and it was never intended with half measures in mind. As such, it can never be used in any friendly sparring matches, tournaments, training fights or just generally anything which doesn’t result in the inevitable death of the loser.
Nathaniel carries around a 12x sniper scope which he can attach to a rail mount on Teres-Aris.
History:
Most of the history is in the character history. Teres-Aris was origionally named Angels Fury and carried the symbol of a howling beowulf. Although Nathaniel designed it himself it was sent to a weaponsmiths to be created. When Nathaniel left the gang he renamed it Teres-Aris and changed the symbol to support his new identity.
| |
| | | | Kooplah
Head Admin
Posts : 1380
Join date : 2013-09-05
| | Subject: Re: Nathaniel Dispar Tue Feb 25, 2014 3:09 am | |
| - Unlocking due to character/profile conflicts.:
CHARACTER
Given Name: Eric Hughes
Taken Name: Nathaniel Dispar
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Symbol The famous 'coming soon' symbol
Height: 6’4
Weight: 175 pounds
Appearance:
Nathaniel’s predominant colour is black. He dresses in black chinos with a dark grey shirt, and a black, ankle length trench coat trimmed in a dark purple and with his symbol emblazoned into the back. The coat is made of a strong Kevlar weave, and the coat tails have fixed lead weights to prevent it from flying up and getting in the way in the heat of combat. The collar of the coat is a rigid, upturned design reaching to the jaw line and base of the skull. He also wears assault boots and fingerless biker gloves, all armour plated, and which are the only kit he uses which could begin to resemble solid armour. As his fighting style comes from lightning speed and initiative, he has come to conclusion that the extra protection from plate isn’t worth the hindrance. He carries 25 rods for Teres-Aris in a thick silver belt around his waist, along with an attachable scope. He has additional bandoliers which he can carry if necessary.
Nathaniel’s eyes are a cold purple, echoing the detailing of his coat. His hair is short, black, and spiked, framing a sharp, angular face. His skin is a pale white, bordering on albino, and he has a single long scar along his left cheek and jawbone, half hidden by his collar. Physically, he is tall and athletically thin, cutting an intimidating posture. Whilst he has to be fairly strong to heft Teres-Aris, he is by no means a strong challenger in a brawl or wrestling match, his true power lying in lightning fast handwork and reflexes.
Personality:
Nathaniel is quiet and withdrawn, preferring solitude over socialisation. He avoids contact with others where possible, and says as little as possible, or sometimes nothing at all. He isn’t comfortable talking about himself and has a habit of walking away when prompted to do so. Living in a self imposed prison, and less responsive than a statue, people tend to give up on him and leave him alone. He’s spent so long telling himself he prefers it that way that he’s actually started to believe it.
Outwardly, Nathaniel might as well be carved from stone for all the expression he shows. His face never tends to leave the “detached” state. This causes most people to believe that he is cold, apathetic, perhaps even peaceful. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Underneath the shell simmers a quiet undercurrent of guilt and anger. Sometimes it screams at him, sometimes it whispers in his ear, but it’s a curse he can never truly be rid of. His temper could be likened to a thread, one which you would never realise you had snapped until his hand was clenched around your throat.
Nathaniel prefers to avoid fighting unless there is a good reason behind it (although his definition of a good reason seems to be drastically different from everyone else’s). Not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because he has a habit of taking things too far- combat is the only way he has found to take his mind off his past, but he has difficulty distinguishing between a friendly sparring match and a fight to the death. That being said, he would still much rather settle a dispute with a blade than a few words.
Having extreme difficulty in burying his past, Nathaniel regularly spends his alone time in quiet contemplation, trying to figure out how everything had gone so badly wrong. Any derogatory comments about family (such as “your mum” jokes) tend to send him into a blind rage, regardless of whether they were intended to hurt. Likewise, over the years he has developed a deep-rooted, irrational prejudice against those who use their aura offensively.
History:
*Spoiler Alert*
Also happens to be very long.
Eric spent the first half of his life as the firstborn child of a middle class family. He was a fairly typical boy- he had one mother, one father, and a little sister. He lived in a reasonable sized house, went to an average ranked academic school (where he achieved high grades in all subjects) and never even considered the possibility of becoming a hunter- the concept of violence seemed so far removed as to be almost a fairytale idea, up there with grimm and the world outside the kingdom. As he neared his teens, however, the inevitable began and he started to rebel. He didn’t want to be an office worker or a shop owner; he wanted to be something interesting, something different. Looking through the school library, he suddenly began to pay a lot more attention to the tales of heroes. It seemed to him that that was who he wanted to be. His mind set, he began his ‘training’.
Eric’s first weapon was nothing particularly special- that is to say, he taped a kitchen knife to a broom handle. While not much to brag about, it did, however, suffice as a mock spear. Over the course of months, he pored over every fighting guide he could get his hands on, stacking repetition on repetition until he had every move, every sequence near perfect. It wasn’t easy. Everything he did had to be a closely guarded secret- his parents would never allow him to risk his life, he had to wait until the choice was his to make.
After nearly a year’s hard work, he looked back at what he had achieved. His form was excellent, his strikes were fast and true, the kitchen knife had been replaced by a shaped aluminium blade he had cut down in the technology department, and yet there was still something missing. He still couldn’t perform huge leaps, fight with the elements, withstand huge hits or sense nearby enemies. When he looked at himself all he saw was a boy with a poleaxe- a boy who could use it well but at the end of the day, there was still nothing special about him. He needed something more, so he turned to the two forces the books spoke of- dust, and aura. Dust he knew he could never get hold of- it was too expensive, and he’d need some way to channel it. His only option, he decided, was aura- from what he had read it seemed that everybody had the capacity to use it; The only tricky part was to find out how.
It took him three weeks to find a book which actually detailed how to unlock aura, and months of silent concentration afterwards before he could finally manage it- it was like trying to find a power tap deep inside your imagination, but with no idea where it could be. After getting over the triumph of unlocking his own aura, the first thing he did was to try out it’s shielding properties. Slowly, and extremely nervously, he built himself up gently to the moment. He used pens, pencils, a pair of compasses, and slowly brought himself closer to the moment when he could put it off no longer. Forcing his eyes shut, he focussed all of his concentration on the knuckles of his left hand. One false thought, he knew, and he was done. He took a deep breath-the cleaver fell-and there was nothing. Prying his eyes open, preparing for the worst, he forced himself to look at his hand; there wasn’t a scratch on it. He couldn’t quite keep the smile off his face. He could successfully protect himself from blows- next he had to learn to project it.
Learning to project his aura was much like learning to unlock it- trying to harness a power that fled from your touch the moment you reached out toward it. However, having already been unlocked it was a lot less time consuming, and in a matter of weeks Eric was pushing weights across the desk with nothing but his mind. However, over the past year his training had begun to consume him completely. His grades had gone from exemplary, to average, poor, and then failing. His parents had had enough. They were sick of excuses, of him ‘adjusting’ or his ‘fluked fails’. They resolved to get to the bottom of it, once and for all.
For the first time since it arrived, his parents took no notice of the ‘do not enter’ sign hanging on his door. They stormed in, without a single word or knock, as he was training with his halberd. It was hard to say who was the most shocked- they just stood there staring. After a second, their faces grew dark and grim. “What”, his mother asked coldly “is that? What... do you think you are doing?” Eric tried to think of some answer, some way to get out of the trouble, but there was nothing. His mind was blank to everything but one recurring thought- this was his chance, the best opportunity to convince them that this was his choice. “I’m training”, he stated, with as much conviction as he could muster, “I’m going to become a hunter.”
His mother gasped, and went pale. He waited for her to say something, but then, all of a sudden, his father laughing condescendingly. “Become a hunter. Fear not world, my thirteen year old son... is training to become a hunter! Here is the hero we’ve all been waiting for, a scrawny boy with a pointy stick and an enormous ego! Give it up son, the last thing we need is some wannabe child playing warriors. You’ve got better things to do, like your exams; better things which might actually come true.”
Eric was struck by a sudden burst of desperate anger. “You have no idea what I can do! I’ve spent nearly two whole years training for this! This is my life and you have absolutely no right to tell me what I can and can’t do!” His dad looked him up and down. “So that’s it. That’s why your performance has been dropping. You’ve been practicing for a life of violence and killing. Fine. Die. Become that warrior you want to be, and die young. But know this- no son of mine will ever become a hunter. If you really do go down this path I’ll do nothing to stop you. But you will no longer be my son.” He began to walk away.
Eric felt a cold anger building inside of him, and it was like his mind began splitting at the seams. “You can do whatever you want. You can’t control me anymore. I’ve already unlocked my aura.”
His father froze. “What... did you say? What... have you done!? I’ll... I’ll...”
“Eric”, came a quiet voice from the corner, and he turned to look at his mother, praying for some form of support, “has anyone ever told you what a hero is? Have you never wondered what it takes to become one?” Her voice grew hard. “A hero is just like any other fighter, only too stupid to run away.”
At that comment, all control fled, every hope and ideal crashing down like a tower of cards. He felt something snap, deep within his mind. He felt... Empty. He felt... strength. Immense strength. The he felt... nothing.
When he woke in a hospital bed, nobody would talk to him- nobody wanted to be the one to break the news. Eventually, he was approached by a young, smiling woman. Her badge read ‘child support councillor’ and she told him, after a great deal of “you must be in shock’s” and “are you definitely okay’s” that his family was gone. His house had been levelled, she told him, in a gas leak. His mother, his father, his sister- all dead. No matter what they called it, Eric knew what had happened. He’d lost control of his aura. A fortnight before his fourteenth birthday, he had inadvertently killed his own family.
Time passed, and after being released from the hospital after what was described as a ‘healing time nothing short of miraculous’, he was sent to an orphanage and tough inner city school. He went into a spiral of depression, became introverted and isolated, two constantly warring forces stuck inside his head- anger over what he had done, and guilt because of it. The other students viewed him as a freak and a weirdo, and the few attempts to generate a friendship quickly stopped. He became the butt of jokes, the target of pranks, and in turn his avoidance of other people became an outright hatred. Then one morning, on the way to school, they took it to the next level.
He was following his normal solitary route, and everything seemed to be normal. They must of been watching for him though, because halfway down his shortcut (a dim, little used alley) they showed themselves. There were five of them in total, three in front and another two who must have been following to cut him off. They told him they wanted his lunch money but he knew how it worked- they were really after an excuse to beat someone. Nor did he intend to just sit there and take it.
The five of them together tore him apart, crushing fingers, blackening eyes, bruising everything they could get to. Curled defensively into a ball, his aura took most of the beating, but it still hurt like nothing else he had ever experienced. It was only afterwards as he lay there, blood and snot seeping from his broken nose, that he realised what had happened. Despite all the pain, or perhaps because of it, he had actually enjoyed himself. It was as though, for every punch he threw, for every blow he received, the agony inside his head was pushed a little further from his mind. The guilt, the anger, they could be temporarily staved off. It was almost too good to be true.
Eric quickly developed a reputation. He changed virtually overnight from the isolated weirdo to the loudmouthed thug, always willing to kick someone’s teeth in. When the others began to realise the difference they stopped insulting him and making jokes, and did their best to stay out of his way. When that happened he simply adjusted his temper to fit. Even looking at him the wrong way could be considered an offence. It took one year, two homes, and five schools before someone recognised his potential.
The fifth school he went to, he was given an offer- another student happened to be a ‘man on the ground’ distributing products for a wealthy businessman. However, the clients sometimes tended to get unruly and he was looking for a bit of muscle- muscle which was there to prevent fights but was more than ready to get his hands dirty when necessary. For Eric, it was a perfect opportunity- he actually got paid to go and fight people. And when the products turned out to be drugs, well, it wasn’t like it affected him.
With a pretty well paid job for a guy his age, Eric decided that it was time. The deals were turning sour more and more often as unrest grew through the area and hell, he had enough cash. He went to a nearby antique shop and picked up Fang, a rusty but workable halberd. Cutting the shaft half, he ground rails into the split halves so that, when a show of force wasn’t necessary, he could break it down and store it beneath his jacket.
It was during one particularly bad fight that a mistake was made. It started as a pretty regular deal gone wrong, bullets started flying; the dealer hit the deck and the two bodyguards prepared to do their thing. Eric wasn’t bothered- by this stage it had become an everyday occurrence, nothing to get worked up about. He ducked down behind a skip as his partner, another teen a few years older than him, ducked inside a doorway, checking and cocking a compact autopistol. They glanced at each other, caught each other’s eyes, and nothing more needed saying.
Eric broke cover, sprinting evasively down the path towards the three hostiles. One fell as he watched, shot in the throat with a pistol round. The second caught one in the shin, falling to one knee just in time for Eric to take half his head off with Fang before leaping forwards and burying it in the final ones stomach as he tried bringing his weapon to bear. Panting, ever so slightly out of breath and yet utterly exhilarated, Eric pulled to a halt. He rested one hand against the wall, eyes closed, letting the adrenaline run its course. Then there was a click behind him, just as a shout of warning rang out from the others.
He half turned, and was hit by a solid wall of heat. Thrown to the floor, he looked up and through a writhing cone of fire made out the silhouette of another figure, carrying something bulky and metallic in his hands- some asshole was hitting him with a dust thrower. Grunting, fighting against the kinetic force and the blinding heat, he rose unsteadily back to his feet. He took one step forwards, then another, and the silhouette began backing away. He took another, and another, growing more steady with every second and then suddenly he was free of it and bearing down on the shocked thug. He reached out, his aura still glowing white hot, and yanked the dust thrower from his hands, smashing it across his face once, twice, three times. When he fell to the floor Eric spun the dust thrower around and depressed the trigger, sending a torrent of flames across the screaming figure. After five seconds he let it fall to the ground. Turning from the charred corpse he found himself looking into the stunned expressions of the other two. “What?” he grunted.
It didn’t take long for them to call for him. While the dealer might not have known what aura was the higher ups most assuredly did. In the back of a blacked out van they questioned him- who had trained him, how had he unlocked his aura, who exactly was he? At the end of the journey they gave him an offer- the boss was always looking for good men and his talents were wasted looking after bottom rung dealers. They were after experienced mercenaries, and they were willing to take him on- full time, with a good salary and free training. For Eric, the offer was nothing short of a miracle. He entered the ranks the very next day. It wasn’t like anyone would find him worth the effort of searching for.
Time went on and he rose quickly through the ranks. The adults, who had once looked down on him with scorn, didn’t take long to realise their mistake. He grew a reputation as a fearsome fighter no one wanted to go up against, and people began calling him the prodigy. For Eric it was a time of plenty, of blood and violence and revelling in his ability to make others suffer. Although he still didn’t use dust and was traumatised by the aggressive use of aura (although anyone who mentioned it would have wound up dead) he became a demon with his Halberd, Fang becoming like an extension of his arm. Basic moves and routines over, he knew that they could only get him so far- he began to develop his own style, and he excelled.
It was during one morning that the next event of his career turned up; in four black vans and the revenge of a rival gang leader. In the fight that followed, The Boss was being escorted from the scene when, right in front of him a wall exploded into splinters and in stepped a combat exosuit. Eric didn’t think about what he was doing, he got between them and charged it down. Even shot three times by a high calibre chaingun, he still managed to reach it and drag the screaming pilot from the cockpit, before slitting his throat and letting his corpse fall to the floor. Only then did he allow himself to give in to unconsciousness.
The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t in the ordinary sick quarters- no, these were much cleaner and shinier. The second thing was that there was a man in a suit standing over him. Wow, he must have done something really bad if they were waiting for him to wake. But no, as the man introduced himself as one of The Boss’s personal representatives, it seemed the truth was far less believable. Somehow his reckless, suicidal charge had wormed him into the Boss’s favour. The man was here for two reasons- firstly to extend the offer of a place in the ranks of their esteemed leader’s highly elite personal guard. Secondly, as a token of gratitude, he had been given leave to grant one task or favour, so long as it were in his power. Eric wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. His reply to the first offer was a resounding yes (not only would he be one of the great, the pay was more than double what he was earning now) and to the second, he asked for a pencil, rubber, and a pad of paper. Then he asked them to leave him.
Through the entire night he worked, draft upon draft ending up in the bin. Fang had served him faithfully but it was far beyond its sell by date. He needed something better, something more befitting of a warrior of his status. He needed power, and he needed a symbol to go with it.
Come morning he was done. Papers scattered the floor everywhere around the overflowing bin, his eyes were red-rimmed from painkillers and sleeplessness, but in his hands he held two pieces more valuable than anything else he had ever owned. The blueprint for a sigil of a howling Beowulf, and a full 3D blueprint for a halberd/glaive/railgun- for Angels Fury.
When, in a week, he was finally back up to full strength, he was summoned to the ‘throne room’. There, in front of the very elite, he was presented, by the man himself, with his great weapon, sigil inscribed upon the blade. When he knelt he was a mercenary, an expendable soldier, a number. When he rose he was a man, a man whose name would be down in the gang logbook for as long as it stood. The only think he hadn’t anticipated was just how tough it was going to be.
While his swollen ego had no trouble seeing himself as a demigod, the others seemed to have different ideas. They put him under immense physical and mental training, things which he had thought could no longer pose any challenge. They broke him, then they broke him, then they flung the pieces to the furthest reaches of the earth. His ego shank away to nothingness, his arrogance left him for the first time in years. For the first time since he had discovered the release of violence he became... disciplined. It was as though he regressed from the brutal thug back to the isolationist loner. Only this time it wasn’t the anger and the guilt which led him to it- no, he had mastered them. They still screamed at him but this time he was ready for them. After the extreme mental conditioning he knew how to deal with dark thoughts, and he knew how to ignore them. Never again, he told himself, would he give in to them.
When finally he was their man, and theirs alone, only then did they teach him to fight. Everything he had ever thought he had known, everything he had ever learned, was turned upon its head. He was so used to being undefeatable that he had forgotten what losing was like- it wasn’t enjoyable, but he was simply too tired to dwell on it. They began to shape him into the great warrior he had always thought he already was.
It was funny really. The rise to the top of the food chain was the thing which made him want to leave it all behind. When they instilled their fearsome discipline into him the animal he had been turning into had been torn apart and scattered, and yet even as that was happening an old, familiar and yet vague feeling began to return. As Eric began to pull himself together, the shreds of a conscience slowly came crawling back. He began to look, to really look, at what he had done with his life.
When his family died- no, when he killed his family, he had lost all self control. He had lost himself in self pity, then later in self indulgence. He had become like one of the monsters he had wanted to slay, a mindless vessel subject to the whims of hunger and killing. It was like he had spent four years of his life in a trance and had only just opened his eyes. How many people had he killed? How many would he murder before one of them finally got lucky? After all, at the end of the day that’s what they were training him for. To murder anyone The Boss decided he didn’t like. All of a sudden he didn’t want to spend another minute in this gang. He wanted to be out by tomorrow.
And that’s when it hit him. The true depth of the hole he’d dug himself into. You couldn’t just quit the job; you knew too much. The only way he’d ever seen anyone leave was in a body bag. They had him now, he could run and they’d never stop hunting him. One of the elite guards, escape? Perhaps some nameless grunt, but with him the embarrassment would be too much. He could leave to sixty and they’d still be after him. He’d have to get a new name, a new look, an entire new identity. He couldn’t leave a single thread of his past to lead them to it. The best thing to do would be to leave the kingdom, but he wasn’t ready to live a life endlessly behind enemy territory, always looking behind his back for Grimm. And then suddenly, it was like a light switch had been flicked on inside his head. That dream that he’d held, of becoming a hunter- maybe it wasn’t so farfetched after all. He’d heard of the combat schools, he’d wanted to go to one himself, although he’d known that he’d never have the money. And he was what, nearly nineteen? He could still make that. Suddenly he was a blur of activity, searching for any schools like that close enough to run to. Okay, that one looked pretty good. Nice name. Beacon. Looked like the kind of place even they wouldn’t dare to attack. There was a problem though. He still didn’t have enough to pay for the tuition- all his money was in credit, and they could track it. Then a terrible, brilliant, daring, insane idea came to him. If he left, they’d hunt him to the end of the earth. So what was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t like it could get any worse. And The Boss’s money- all of that was hard copy.
The heist itself was ridiculously simple. The safe was designed to stop other gangs, not someone from his own. Eric didn’t even have to fight the guards, he just waved them away on some ridiculous pretence like moving it for The Boss. He took everything he could and ran, and he was away without a single alarm triggered or shot fired. After that, it took no skill at all to get his new ID- he had enough contacts to know where to go. Identity sorted, there were two things which still had to be sorted. His new clothes- and his new symbol. For this, he wanted something simple, something subtle. He wanted it to be the exact opposite of his previous one, to represent the change which had come over him. His design complete, he had it not only replace the one on Angels Fury, which he renamed Teres-Aris, but he had it woven into his specialised tailor made trench coat- which cost him more than most people earned in a year. Everything set, he set of towards ‘Beacon’, the school which would be soon be his home. It was going to be a long walk.
Nearly three weeks later, Nathaniel Dispar entered Beacon under a falsified school report and identity, paying with stolen money.
Childs play.
Strength
Extremely powerful in close range combat
Fights well against humans
Extremely fast
Relatively good at long range
Weakness:
Poor communication
No mid ranged capabilities
No dust usage and aura is limited to absorbing hits
No experience with Grimm
WEAPON
Name:
Teres-Aris
Primary Form:
Halberd
Secondary Form
Glaive
Tertiary Function
Railgun
Description
Teres-Aris is a tri-purpose weapon. It’s primary form is that of an 8.5 foot halberd, but it can also transform into a glaive, consequently adding a extra half foot in length. The blade is solid, heavyweight tungsten designed for maximum generation of momentum, while the shaft is a lightweight aluminium alloy, allowing for rapid, flowing attack and defence routines.
The shaft itself is hollow, and functions as a MAR (Magnetic Accelerator Rifle, also known as a railgun), a smaller, handheld version of a MAC. The MAR is a single shot, high recoil weapon, and the extreme bottom of the shaft folds out into a rifle stock. It consists of a series of a series of high powered magnetic rings leading all down the barrel, and a single push/ hold magnet at the end to hold the ammunition in place or rapidly repel it. When inactive, the polarity locks the ammunition to the rear of the barrel and can hold it there regardless of gravity or g-force. When the trigger (located about a third of the way up the shaft) is pulled, the polarity of the magnets is reversed, each within a nanosecond of the previous, forcing the ammunition along the barrel at an extreme acceleration gradient before it leaves the barrel in excess of three times the speed of sound. Consequently, shots from the MAR are virtually impossible to block or dodge, the best tactic simply being to get out of the way before a shot is fired.
The ammunition itself has no special properties- it fires solid steel rods, about 8 inches long and half an inch in diameter, inserted into the barrel on the opposite side to the trigger at about half a foot from the bottom end of the shaft. They have tapered points for increased penetration and aerodynamics, but most of the armour piercing potential comes from travelling at 1200 m/s. While the weapon is configured to fire steel rods, there is no reason why it couldn’t fire other metallic objects with a little adjustment.
Due to the speed of the projectiles fired, Nathaniel is forced to wear special noise cancelling headphones whenever he fires, as prolonged exposure to the pressure waves can rupture the eardrums and cause permanent deafness. You know things are getting serious when he puts on his purple-black headset.
The MAR is not a weapon to be trifled with. Its power cannot be reduced, it cannot simply ‘scratch’ an opponent, and it was never intended with half measures in mind. As such, it can never be used in any friendly sparring matches, tournaments, training fights or just generally anything which doesn’t result in the inevitable death of the loser.
Nathaniel carries around a 12x sniper scope which he can attach to a rail mount on Teres-Aris.
History:
Most of the history is in the character history. Teres-Aris was origionally named Angels Fury and carried the symbol of a howling beowulf. Although Nathaniel designed it himself it was sent to a weaponsmiths to be created. When Nathaniel left the gang he renamed it Teres-Aris and changed the symbol to support his new identity.
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