So are we gonna make a second topic?

OOC: Alright... Hold your huevos.

Ooc: very well, but don't you dare do one liners kk.

OOC: Alright! To anyone who wants a free for all, I will PM thee a link! The battle shall occur there!

fine fine I won't.

Username: Kerim
Name: Daryl Gordan
Age: 26
Class: Wyvern Rider
Appearance: Daryl is a tall man, at around 6' 6". He has a scrawny build, but his muscles are well toned. Sports about 1.5 feet of dark hair, the bangs messily hanging over his eyes and face. Usually has dark bags under his eyes, from lack of sleep. His irises are a light shade of brown, although they look darker by the shadow cast on them by his air and thick brows. He has high cheekbones, with rounded ears. His chin is small, and he has a fairly pointed nose. He wears a thin, thread undershirt, with sleeves that come to a small cuff on the wrist. Over this he wears a thin metal plate, hardly offering much protection. His shoulder armor is strapped to his torso by leather strips. He has worn, dusty leather pants, and boots that sport metal toes. Often wears a leather coat over everything, as it gets rather cold in high altitudes. A gold-plated necklace hangs around his scrawny neck.
His armor are 2 metal plates, less than half of an inch thick.. There is one on both sides of his his torso. The one on the front, is constantly being battered, and is full of dents and the edges are rusted on both pieces. He has shoulder armor of the same thickness, loosely attached to the rest. He also has metal knee pads, strapped by leather wrapped around his pant legs. He wears boots with cast iron spurs, made by himself. The boots have a metal tip attached to the leather, as the iron spurs made it hard to balance. These heavy boots can be hard to lift.
His wyvern is a fairly large size, with a wingspan of around 30 feet. The mount is of a maroon color, with a dark leather saddle on his back. This has a spot for a lance, and several bags attached to it, for quick storage. These bags carry mostly his axe and containers of various alcoholic beverages. The tail of the wyvern sports a poisoned metal tip on it. His yellowed teeth are sharpened, and the edges of his wings are torn, from rough adventures alone in the wild. The stomach of the mount is covered in scars and scratches from fights with other wyverns or from flying low through thick brush. His claws are tipped with cast iron, giving his scratch an extra "oomph". He wears a metal head guard with a spike on the end, poisoned like the tail. His eyes are a knowing shade of green. His ears come to a small point.
Personality: Daryl is a very upbeat person. Fairly laid back, he likes nothing more than to flaunt his flying ability to everyone he meets. Can be serious if need be, and often drifts into deep thought. He can have a dark sense of humor, and tries to smile through everything, believing everything is much easier to achieve with a smile on your face. His view on the world is fairly optimistic, and he has a passionate hate for pessimists and bandits. His thoughts are often plagued with bad memories, but he manages to keep a smile throughout. He is an extrovert, and doesn't have a problem with talking with new people. He also is very charismatic. While he appears to be fairly arrogant, he still respects other people, and doesn't think of himself high above them.
Biography: He was born of a young couple, and was never thought to be anything special. As a young boy, he lived in a small town. His parents were humble farmers, and he took up the job. He always was helping someone. He used to hunt for the local meat keep, for money, and his preferred weapon was an axe he had found in the barn. He began with small rabbits, afraid to hunt for anything more, but the demand for meat grew higher, and he grew to tackle larger prey. At 17 he had gone into the woods looking for small game, but he came across a fierce grizzly. He tried to avoid combat, but the creature seemed to be intent on taking his life. The struggle was long. He was attacked viciously, and barely managed to bring down his axe on the bear's head, bringing the fatal blow. Carrying the dead carcass of the creature, he came back to the small town. Ravaged, but alive. The bear had eaten away at his skin in various places. His father was incredibly proud. This same day, a group of wyvern riders passed through the town. Fascinated, the young man had come to investigate.
He endured the long walk to the group, and was simply filled to the brim with excitement. He had pulled out of his hospital bed and dragged his injured body to where the meeting was. The boy asked them all kinds of questions, asking how old he had to be to join, how to take care of the wyverns, and if it was easy to ride them. He was told he had to be 18, and was given a small tutorial on how to take care of and ride one. He decided that the day he turned 18, he would join this group. On his eighteenth birthday, the group of wyvern riders returned, their beasts soaring just as gracefully as they had months before. His bags were packed, and after a tearful goodbye to his father, he left the little town to join them. The boy's senses were honed on his training. His body was strengthened, and his morals were changed. He gained a respect for life, and knew the He learned quickly, and quickly became an experienced rider. His travels took him to faraway lands, to tackle the enemy. His mind was completely set on becoming the best. Daryl did so. His skills had become unmatched after the two years he spent in the corps. He returned to his village after his term, and came to the sight of burning wood, the whole village in flames. His father had died in the raid, it seemed to have happened just moments before. He cursed himself for not being faster. He left the group of wyverns, and traveled by himself, in grief. His only companion was his faithful mount. The two became even closer, and the bond shared by them is now unfathomable. He often thought of his father, but his grief continues to weaken to this day. The hole in his heart will never fully heal however. He continues to wander the land, occasionally stopping at villages to get a warm meal and a roof over his head for a night.


Time for a new profile, amirite?
EDIT: Duke, that was in no effort to discourage you, but whatever...

User Name: TheDukeofLuke

Character Name: Johnny Johnson

Age: 26

Appearance: A young man that is about 6 feet tall. He has light brown hair, cut in the short, military style. He has a bristling brown beard that he often shaves with a iron knife. He has a black cotton jacket with several with several brass button. Underneath it he has a frilly long sleeved shirt that is not seeable with his jacket on. He has a leather belt with a silver belt buckle(his most prized possession.) He wears pants made of several clothes made from many different things including a sail, which he sowed together. He takes them everywhere, seeing what kinds of cloth he can add.

Personality: He has quick wits, and a taste for the arts. He is quiet, but has a good sense of humor. Unfortunately, he has bladder problems. He finds s**** in training with his blade and playing cards. Quick with his hands, he remains undefeated in the card game, Erf. Enjoys the outdoors and a bit of sailing here and there. He is often lazy unless the goal is for personal benefit.

Biography: Johnny was born in Tallabera. Born to a poor family, he played with mud as his only toy. By the time he was 9, he was accepted into the neighborhood school, where he began his education. This was where he found his love for the blade, and for the harmonica. He trained and invented techniques and played harmonica, while other kids learned to ride horses. At age 13, his father was brutally murdered, for he had found information that could incriminate the king of the land. The murderer had also killed his mother along with his father, shortly after going for him, though his quick thinking allowed him to grab his blade to protect himself, though he was unable to stop the assailant from grazing his sternum. To this day, he has not learned who the assailant was, just the scar that he received from him.

Misc.: Speaks solemnly and gruffly, especially when talking about his past

Current item/weapon: A one handed sword called vengeance. He also carries his cherished belt and a deck of cards that he stole from the market.

Skills: Besides taking a dump every 15 minutes… no. His bowl infection comes from a strange micro bacteria found on his homeland. Many people on the island have this infection, including Johnny’s late parents.

Class: Freelancer

Job: Musician

OOC: Taking a dump every fifteen minutes? Whaa??

Never mind that

OOC: Forget it...

Centro lands on the mast of a great ship. His 8 hencmen having been killed by the fearsome Hydra. Centro says a small prayer for his fallen allies, and draws his blade preparing to battle the fearsome Scylla.

Captain Avigo
_________________________________________________________________________________
It was cold. Very cold. Not only had the water around the "A Capella" frozen, a light snow had begun to fall, lacing the ship with a thin sheet of powdery white. Avigo sat inside the Captain's room, trying to decipher the compass he carried around with him. Slumped in his elegant red armchair, he fiddled around with the object while mumbling phrases to himself "Put red in the bed... no... Put white in the tights... No, that's not it either..." Looking up from his work, he stared out the window at the falling snow and shivered, pulling his Captain's jacket more tightly around himself. He couldn't concentrate, not while the ship was at a standstill, he might as well make another trip down to the cargo hold to fetch another bottle of ale. Letting out a sigh, he placed the compass on the desk in front of him and got out of the chair, stretching his limbs. Groggy, he scanned the room in search of his beloved hat. He found it atop a suit of amour (which doubled as Avigo's hat rack) and placed it atop his own head. The armor also held his messenger bag, which he too, took from it. Avigo gave it a nod as if it could actually respond, and headed for the door that led to the deck. Placing his gloved hand on the elegant brass doorknob, he gave it a slight twist and stepped out into the bitter cold. Immediately in front of him was the ship's wheel, and on any other day, Avigo would of been all over it like a bee to honey. But it was pointless now to even try to move the ship. Not in this cold. Starting down one of the staircases on either side of the wheel, Avigo made his way to the deck. As he bounded down the steps, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Stopping, the Captain leaned on the railing of the staircase to try to get a better view. With his hand, he shielded his eyes from the snow and stared up at the great masts of the ship. "By the gods..." he mumbled, dumbstruck "What the bloody 'ell is that?"
Atop the mast was a young man, holding a sword, in some sort of prayer.