Please use this thread to post backgrounds for your characters. I will link to the individual posts from the team listing in the main thread. 
Snakes & Foxes 3: The ****oo's Nest (Character Backgrounds)
- Thread starter Niklas
- Start date
Although it's not strictly required, it's fun, and it adds to the flavor of the game. I mean, we could just run a game by posting whoever wins and distributing items, but that's no fun, right? We want to see epic descriptions of pitched battle flavored by bits and pieces about each character.
mythmonster2
BEC NOIR! RUN!
He is a knight. At first glance, one would think he is a servant of evil, but more accurately, he is a knight of evil. The two seem like an oxymoron combined, but when one thinks of it, a knight is simply a person who fights for a lord, and that is what he does. Most think his lord, and therefore him, to be evil, but evil is in the eye of the beholder. Clad in black armor, not to symbolize darkness, but to blend in at nighttime, and standing at least a head over an ordinary man, he's an intimidating figure, indeed. Oh, and the evil sword and shield don't help his image at all, either. The two were once holy relics, but the mold themselves to reflect their owners, and so they shine black as obsidian, giving him a fearsome look indeed.It is said that his lance also is at its most beautiful when stained in blood, as it often is at the end of a great battle.
However, what is a knight without honor? One would think evil and honor also are oxymorons, but he is living proof they are not. Unlike the other corrupt knights in his lord's service, he has no rapes, assaults, or unnecessary killings on his record. He is honorable to a fault, and he had to regrettable give up his habit of refusing to fight unarmed people for this tournament. Women and children are unharmed by this man, and good enemies will often find themselves given mercy, and sometimes even a compliment on their fighting and helpful advice.
A Knight, indeed.
However, what is a knight without honor? One would think evil and honor also are oxymorons, but he is living proof they are not. Unlike the other corrupt knights in his lord's service, he has no rapes, assaults, or unnecessary killings on his record. He is honorable to a fault, and he had to regrettable give up his habit of refusing to fight unarmed people for this tournament. Women and children are unharmed by this man, and good enemies will often find themselves given mercy, and sometimes even a compliment on their fighting and helpful advice.
A Knight, indeed.
thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
Nice, Mythmonster!
Mine will be up tomorrow.
Mine will be up tomorrow.
Seon
Not An Evil Liar
Mine will be up by next week 
Diamondeye
So Happy I Could Die
Some people find the Balseraph Harlequin ridiculous. Those are normally the ones who see him at a distance. Those who look closer are either scared or withdraw in disgust.
Behind the makeup and the clown costume is a twisted body and a twisted mind, and it is not without reason that the enemies of the Balseraph Empire fear these strange rangers, for what they lack in stealth (rush in, bells jingling!) they make up for in madness and intensity. Few survive to tell the tale of how it feels like to fight a Harlequin, and those who do often end up as mad as their slain foe.
This particular Harlequin is no exception. He sometimes speaks in riddles, sometimes in rhymes, sometimes in rhetorics and often in complete nonsense. Do not underestimate the courage and bloodlust that madness can indulge in a mind as sick as this. And put something in your ears to block out that jingle, immidiately! After a week in the arena with that sound, you're probably more welcome in the Balseraph freak show than at home, even if you emerge victorious.
Oh, and The Harlequin likes to talk about himself in third person. Nice to meet you all."
*mad cackle*
Behind the makeup and the clown costume is a twisted body and a twisted mind, and it is not without reason that the enemies of the Balseraph Empire fear these strange rangers, for what they lack in stealth (rush in, bells jingling!) they make up for in madness and intensity. Few survive to tell the tale of how it feels like to fight a Harlequin, and those who do often end up as mad as their slain foe.
This particular Harlequin is no exception. He sometimes speaks in riddles, sometimes in rhymes, sometimes in rhetorics and often in complete nonsense. Do not underestimate the courage and bloodlust that madness can indulge in a mind as sick as this. And put something in your ears to block out that jingle, immidiately! After a week in the arena with that sound, you're probably more welcome in the Balseraph freak show than at home, even if you emerge victorious.
Oh, and The Harlequin likes to talk about himself in third person. Nice to meet you all."
*mad cackle*
thomas.berubeg
Wandering the World
Nothing is more sacred than the earth that gave us birth.
Dirt trickled through the dwarf boy’s fingers into a small pile. He squatted on the floor of the Golem foundry his father owned. Despite the loudly clanking industry behind him, the boy was intent on the small pile of dust in front of him, stirring it with his fingers and shaping it.
Theft is the only crime.
“Theft is the only Crime, son. DO you understand?”
“No, father.”
“When you kill a dwarf, you steal from him his life. You steal from his family his love. Theft is the only crime. Everything else is only a variation on the same theme.”
Charity is a fault, as it prevents others learning the meaning of hard work.
The Beggar stood at the door, holding his hands out, pitifully begging for alms. His rags whipped around in the wind.
“Will you work for your food?” Father asked
“Work? After I eat, of course.”
“Work before. It is the only way to earn your keep.”
The beggar turned away, into the chill wind, and the father turned back inside, disgusted by the lack of ethic he saw in the beggar.
The Boy ran outside, and handed the beggar a small loaf of bread. Gratefully, the Beggar took it and said “Bless the, boy, may Nantosuelta keep you.”
The only reward worth having is from a job done well.
The Smoking rubble of the west wing of the Factory was a sharp counterpoint to the disappointment in his father’s eyes. His father didn’t speak, didn’t yell, wasn’t even angry. But the disappointment was enough.
Honor Kilmorph’s grace in all you do.
“Craftsmen Thomas, do you take your vows in Kilmorph’s honor? “
“Yes”
“In Her honor alone, not for your own advancement?”
“Yes”
“you understand that once you have taken the oaths, it will be nigh impossible to leave the order of Kilmorph?”
“Yes”
“Then, Craftsmen Thomas, you will henceforth be known only as Runekeeper.”
Dirt trickled through the dwarf boy’s fingers into a small pile. He squatted on the floor of the Golem foundry his father owned. Despite the loudly clanking industry behind him, the boy was intent on the small pile of dust in front of him, stirring it with his fingers and shaping it.
Theft is the only crime.
“Theft is the only Crime, son. DO you understand?”
“No, father.”
“When you kill a dwarf, you steal from him his life. You steal from his family his love. Theft is the only crime. Everything else is only a variation on the same theme.”
Charity is a fault, as it prevents others learning the meaning of hard work.
The Beggar stood at the door, holding his hands out, pitifully begging for alms. His rags whipped around in the wind.
“Will you work for your food?” Father asked
“Work? After I eat, of course.”
“Work before. It is the only way to earn your keep.”
The beggar turned away, into the chill wind, and the father turned back inside, disgusted by the lack of ethic he saw in the beggar.
The Boy ran outside, and handed the beggar a small loaf of bread. Gratefully, the Beggar took it and said “Bless the, boy, may Nantosuelta keep you.”
The only reward worth having is from a job done well.
The Smoking rubble of the west wing of the Factory was a sharp counterpoint to the disappointment in his father’s eyes. His father didn’t speak, didn’t yell, wasn’t even angry. But the disappointment was enough.
Honor Kilmorph’s grace in all you do.
“Craftsmen Thomas, do you take your vows in Kilmorph’s honor? “
“Yes”
“In Her honor alone, not for your own advancement?”
“Yes”
“you understand that once you have taken the oaths, it will be nigh impossible to leave the order of Kilmorph?”
“Yes”
“Then, Craftsmen Thomas, you will henceforth be known only as Runekeeper.”
scherbchen
well that can´t be good
- Joined
- Aug 1, 2006
- Messages
- 3,530
work in progress (need a good night's sleep)
scherbchen revelled at the thought of the upcoming games. this is what she lived for. booze, bets, carnage, trickery and deceit as well as undying loyalties. being exposed to so many possible converts to the cause of nature who would receive her gifts made her absolutely giddy, after all she had been considered to be a mere faun some weeks ago and could not wait to prove her worth (and mirth) to the old satyrs. incompetent old goats the lot of them...
so roll out the kegs, bring out the combatants, bring forth the wenches and let her play her bewitching tune. be merry!
Spoiler :
scherbchen revelled at the thought of the upcoming games. this is what she lived for. booze, bets, carnage, trickery and deceit as well as undying loyalties. being exposed to so many possible converts to the cause of nature who would receive her gifts made her absolutely giddy, after all she had been considered to be a mere faun some weeks ago and could not wait to prove her worth (and mirth) to the old satyrs. incompetent old goats the lot of them...
so roll out the kegs, bring out the combatants, bring forth the wenches and let her play her bewitching tune. be merry!
MooseWarrior
Prince
The barbarian known as MooseWarrior is a violent warrior. He spends his free time getting drunk and buying kegs of ale to drink. Eventually he becomes so drunk he believes he is part moose and dares people to fight him. In combat his drunkenness is replaced by rage and many brawls have a tendency to end with someone's arm being ripped off and then an axe buying itself in the person's torso.
BananaLee
Fruity Penguin
A small man with a big gun. That's what the arquebusier is. Along with his big gun comes a big head and a big ego. His father always called him the runt of the family - at least, he thought dad *said* "runt". As a result, he always had a desperate need to compensate.
Strangely enough, his drive to do everything bigger and better than everyone else led him to join the Khazad Gunner Corps, where he lived his life drinking, debauching and generally talking about himself and his massive weapon (no, not his arquebus) before using it to impress the ladies.
He is most well-known for being able to give multiple orgasms to furniture just by sitting on it, and has a fan club back in Khazad.
Strangely enough, his drive to do everything bigger and better than everyone else led him to join the Khazad Gunner Corps, where he lived his life drinking, debauching and generally talking about himself and his massive weapon (no, not his arquebus) before using it to impress the ladies.
He is most well-known for being able to give multiple orgasms to furniture just by sitting on it, and has a fan club back in Khazad.
Aramazd
Deity
A man enters. But he is not just any man; he is a paladin of Bannor, sworn to vanquish evil. He is slightly taller than most, his eyes meet the top of most people's foreheads. A bit handsome perhaps, save for a scar running down his right cheek, an injury he recieved when he was just a youth. Clad in heavy armor, he has a stately appearance about him. He has a feverant look in his eyes, one could tell he was uncompromising in his mission. His piety is unmatched, as well as his antipathy toward evildoers. Yet, he must begrudgingly tolerate them for now.
KingMorgan
Deity
The White robes of the druid shimmer like a rainbow, yet taking a closer look they are pure white - quite a feat seeing as how the Druid has travelled many miles along the muddy road. The smoke of a hundred campfires and grease and grime of the trail has not dulled the purity of his atire, once would be excused for thinking he has shares in popular brand of detergent or at least a pocket full of coupons. Over a 1000 leagues the celtic druid has travelled to do battle at the court of the insane monarch.
100 days he travelled, from the round table of King Arthur, cross the mighty seas and through the Portal of Despair into these Angel forsaken lands. For one reason alone, to do battle with the best the universe has to offer. Not content with conquering his own dimension the druid must drive ever further to the relams beyond the comprehension of mortal man, into the relam that they believe Fell from Heaven.
To be sure he thinks, these are the best warriors gathered here for the ultimate challenge, he is proud to walk among them and feverantly hopes he can vanquish them all and be crowned head Fox and chief Snake.
100 days he travelled, from the round table of King Arthur, cross the mighty seas and through the Portal of Despair into these Angel forsaken lands. For one reason alone, to do battle with the best the universe has to offer. Not content with conquering his own dimension the druid must drive ever further to the relams beyond the comprehension of mortal man, into the relam that they believe Fell from Heaven.
To be sure he thinks, these are the best warriors gathered here for the ultimate challenge, he is proud to walk among them and feverantly hopes he can vanquish them all and be crowned head Fox and chief Snake.
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
The Mercenary looks unassailable: his face solid and unemotional. His body unreadable. His sense of purpose undefeatable. He has fought hundreds of battle for a handful of coins, for that is all they would pay in this age of golden ages. However, he found that he can recieve much more, and he rejoiced.
Upon his horse he looked into his tent, and he sat up. His armour is not steel or Mithril, but of tough, darkened, iron and leather. His skin is tanned from riding long distances, his reflexes sensitive from escaping death.
He sighed, he will have to escape death a few more times to place his name upon the lips of the bards... he is Charles Li the Mercenary.
Upon his horse he looked into his tent, and he sat up. His armour is not steel or Mithril, but of tough, darkened, iron and leather. His skin is tanned from riding long distances, his reflexes sensitive from escaping death.
He sighed, he will have to escape death a few more times to place his name upon the lips of the bards... he is Charles Li the Mercenary.
PaulusIII
Unholy Warlord
It is said that young Doviello learn to fight before they learn to run, and Paulus the Beastmaster was no exception to the norm. The first 25 years of his life were spent the way you'd expect a Doviello to - giving in to the savagery of his people, fighting both external foes and other Doviello. And it should not come as a surprise that he was good at it if he lived to be 25 years old - he was a regular challenger to the alpha position of his village, and never allowed himself to be killed in combat in the case of defeat.
Yet one day he was still dishonored in combat and beaten to within an inch of his life, and banished from the village. Living alone for a long time, he became more peaceful than you'd expect a Doviello to. Maybe it was the influence of the other Doviello villagers that made him the savage warrior he was? He felt slightly uneasy about his lack of fighting, but overall the peace did him well.
But the inner fire and lust for combat that Camulos plants in all the Doviello does not go away easily, no matter how much Paulus called upon other gods to try and calm this rage and bloodlust. It did not take him long to figure out that the only way to rid himself of his uneasiness was to give in to Camulos' urge and do combat. When the word of the tournament reached Paulus' ears, he jumped at the occasion to join the tournament for the sole purpose of doing battle and perhaps obtaining a bit of glory in the process.
Yet he remembers - No tournament organized by Perpentach is just what it seems on the surface. And as such Paulus tried to call upon every last bit of calm outside the arena, as not to endanger himself - but in the arena he will let go of all restraint and call upon his Doviello savagery to defeat whoever is the unlucky foe across him.
Yet one day he was still dishonored in combat and beaten to within an inch of his life, and banished from the village. Living alone for a long time, he became more peaceful than you'd expect a Doviello to. Maybe it was the influence of the other Doviello villagers that made him the savage warrior he was? He felt slightly uneasy about his lack of fighting, but overall the peace did him well.
But the inner fire and lust for combat that Camulos plants in all the Doviello does not go away easily, no matter how much Paulus called upon other gods to try and calm this rage and bloodlust. It did not take him long to figure out that the only way to rid himself of his uneasiness was to give in to Camulos' urge and do combat. When the word of the tournament reached Paulus' ears, he jumped at the occasion to join the tournament for the sole purpose of doing battle and perhaps obtaining a bit of glory in the process.
Yet he remembers - No tournament organized by Perpentach is just what it seems on the surface. And as such Paulus tried to call upon every last bit of calm outside the arena, as not to endanger himself - but in the arena he will let go of all restraint and call upon his Doviello savagery to defeat whoever is the unlucky foe across him.
PurpleTurtle
Shellshocked
An ill wind breathes through the tavern door bringing a chill to the room as it swirls about. A hearts beat behind it treads a broken shell of a man. Neither alive or dead, or undead. He is a man that feared his own mortality so much that he gave up his soul. Few envy him, some fear him, many pity him. He meets any greeting with an icy inhuman stare and almost never speaks. When he does his voice is cracked and dry like the pleas of a man dying from dehydration. Those he knew and loved are long since dead. Even those he would visit revenge upon have slipped through his grasp into blissful oblivion. Left only with old hates and older fears he exists merely to exist.
Standing nearly three metres tall, and wearing only a tattered loincloth, the Ogre is a hideous sight to behold (especially when the wind catches his loincloth). His mouth a mess of jagged teeth, each the size of a man's finger, and his yellow skin marked with innumerable battle-scars, he is the stuff of children's worst nightmares.
While clearly not possessed of the finest mind in Erebus, his beady eyes show a measure of cunning far greater than seen in most of his kind. And, although grammar and sentence structure are clearly alien concepts, he is quite capable of expressing himself when the need arises.
For the most part, however, he prefers to let his cannonball-sized fists do the talking.
While clearly not possessed of the finest mind in Erebus, his beady eyes show a measure of cunning far greater than seen in most of his kind. And, although grammar and sentence structure are clearly alien concepts, he is quite capable of expressing himself when the need arises.
For the most part, however, he prefers to let his cannonball-sized fists do the talking.
Love
Deity
I'll write this when i have fought.
And risk dying unbaptized?
