"JERICHO"
1085/3500 words || @"" || job info/job sign-up || CONCEALED CUTTERS
Ahote didn’t spend much time outside of his club in Capital Crocus. Boomslang was packed every weekday, weeknight, weekend, and perhaps every other conceivable time of day he could think of. Every time he had opened his club up for business, watching the crowds of people pour into and onto the dance floor, flirting with his bartender of which they were completely ignorant to his being undead, he had thought to himself, “Why hadn’t I opened this club up sooner?” And this was a valid question—why hadn’t he opened this club up sooner? It was booming with business, fitting for its name, and it was substantially an easier and better way of gaining income as opposed to heinous crimes as a terrorist. But his life as a terrorist had also been substantially more fun and really brought up the best of him. As the owner of a popular club in Capital Crocus, Ahote was just that—the owner of a popular club in Capital Crocus.
Ahote began to miss his old life, but at the very same time, he didn’t miss it. He was glad that the old fortress atop Mt. Hakobe was no longer part of his image of home, it with all of its stone floors and icy temperatures, and yet he always found himself caught in the habit of overdressing when he went to bed with the expectation of freezing temperatures rolling over him at night, which they never did. In fact, he didn’t even have to worry about under-dressing or overdressing anymore, because his body had become so alien to his surroundings and himself that it no longer mattered how hot or cold he was. It was hard to explain. It wasn’t that he no longer felt cold or hot anymore, but as if he no longer acknowledged it. A sort of “oh, well, what the hell” kind of response to these changes. Whether he was overdressed or under-dressed no longer made a difference, and Ahote catches himself hardly even sleeping these days.
Yes, he missed his life as a terrorist, but his new lifestyle seemed tolerable since while his settings changed, the people in life never really did. The cheery Iris Esperanza and elusive Aeluri Atra never acted like strangers and came to him often for chats and drinks. But they were perhaps the only ones who really did this, and many of his old companions were either dead or missing-in-action.
At first, Ahote was very upset by this and brooded about it often. Nowadays, he stills broods often but never about this. He’s leaving the club to pursue his own endeavors more frequently and comes back with more to brood about. He really was a handful, always leaving and coming back more upset and pissy than before until he becomes his normal unfriendly self again to only repeat this process. This time around, he’d come home with a grown man, revived from decades of death and idleness. The basement he’d always be in below his club became more and more ethereal and dream-like the more he’d obsess with necromancy and magical artifacts—he was on a quest to retrieve them, you see, and there was no attitude and work ethic quite like his.
The artifacts he sought were awful little things that were profoundly infamous for just how awful they were. There was one mask, the Mask of Lichborne, that harbored the souls of all the thousands of people it’s killed, but that was probably the worst of them. There were other items like swords and books and even parts of people that had similar qualities to them. Ahote had read about diseases of humans recently, too, and discovered that there were diseases for just about anything. There was a disease for the brain, a disease for the liver, the spine, the nervous system, the brain, the heart, the joints of your bones, the femur bone, the cartilage of those bones, the eyeball, the retina of those eyeballs, the skin, your toes, your fingers, your genitalia, your appendix, your tailbone, your whatever-else-that-you-have. He had studied diseases so much recently that he felt that his mind, too, had become diseased. Or perhaps, Ahote mulled over briefly and without care, his mind had always been that way and there just wasn’t a book quite as interesting as that one to ever make this fact clear to him.
There were other parts of his new life that had nothing to do with magical relics and artifacts at all. In fact, before he ever considered himself a terrorist or a seeker of knowledge or a business owner, he labeled himself a sorcerer above all other things, and a mysterious dark organization seemed to recognize this about Ahote, too.
What this organization was called was an uncertainty to Ahote, and while he was adamant about transparency when it comes to these things, it soon no longer held any importance to him like it did before. Why? Well, it never seemed to matter after he was employed and was now out on the field taking his first job under their employment.
His first job under their employment. Ahote repeated this in his head and scoffed triumphantly when he did as he made his way to Lavanitir Port City, or more specifically, a warehouse at the very outskirts of the city. Just the morning before, the wife of some corporate headhunter had been kidnapped by a terror group, and in exchange for her safe return they demanded some ransom. Apparently, the husband had refused or run out of the options offered to him and resorted to this dark organization’s services. Fortunately for the husband, Ahote—no, Jericho—Jericho didn’t want to be there any more than the hostage did, so it would therefore end quickly.
The terror group weren’t difficult to track down. After all, where in a densely populated city would a terror group who was demanding ransom go? Anything even near the center of the city was insensible and unlikely, so it would have to be somewhere in the outskirts that was both inaccessible and obscure. So, consequently, they must’ve been in the abandoned warehouse in an closed off construction area. It wasn’t like an average person would find themselves there and, although the spot seemed cleverly chosen, Jericho simply thought, “Oh, where would dumb criminals hide in a city such as this?” Then he thought that if he were a dumb criminal, he’d hide in an abandoned warehouse as was such expected from a, well, dumb criminal.
Ahote began to miss his old life, but at the very same time, he didn’t miss it. He was glad that the old fortress atop Mt. Hakobe was no longer part of his image of home, it with all of its stone floors and icy temperatures, and yet he always found himself caught in the habit of overdressing when he went to bed with the expectation of freezing temperatures rolling over him at night, which they never did. In fact, he didn’t even have to worry about under-dressing or overdressing anymore, because his body had become so alien to his surroundings and himself that it no longer mattered how hot or cold he was. It was hard to explain. It wasn’t that he no longer felt cold or hot anymore, but as if he no longer acknowledged it. A sort of “oh, well, what the hell” kind of response to these changes. Whether he was overdressed or under-dressed no longer made a difference, and Ahote catches himself hardly even sleeping these days.
Yes, he missed his life as a terrorist, but his new lifestyle seemed tolerable since while his settings changed, the people in life never really did. The cheery Iris Esperanza and elusive Aeluri Atra never acted like strangers and came to him often for chats and drinks. But they were perhaps the only ones who really did this, and many of his old companions were either dead or missing-in-action.
At first, Ahote was very upset by this and brooded about it often. Nowadays, he stills broods often but never about this. He’s leaving the club to pursue his own endeavors more frequently and comes back with more to brood about. He really was a handful, always leaving and coming back more upset and pissy than before until he becomes his normal unfriendly self again to only repeat this process. This time around, he’d come home with a grown man, revived from decades of death and idleness. The basement he’d always be in below his club became more and more ethereal and dream-like the more he’d obsess with necromancy and magical artifacts—he was on a quest to retrieve them, you see, and there was no attitude and work ethic quite like his.
The artifacts he sought were awful little things that were profoundly infamous for just how awful they were. There was one mask, the Mask of Lichborne, that harbored the souls of all the thousands of people it’s killed, but that was probably the worst of them. There were other items like swords and books and even parts of people that had similar qualities to them. Ahote had read about diseases of humans recently, too, and discovered that there were diseases for just about anything. There was a disease for the brain, a disease for the liver, the spine, the nervous system, the brain, the heart, the joints of your bones, the femur bone, the cartilage of those bones, the eyeball, the retina of those eyeballs, the skin, your toes, your fingers, your genitalia, your appendix, your tailbone, your whatever-else-that-you-have. He had studied diseases so much recently that he felt that his mind, too, had become diseased. Or perhaps, Ahote mulled over briefly and without care, his mind had always been that way and there just wasn’t a book quite as interesting as that one to ever make this fact clear to him.
There were other parts of his new life that had nothing to do with magical relics and artifacts at all. In fact, before he ever considered himself a terrorist or a seeker of knowledge or a business owner, he labeled himself a sorcerer above all other things, and a mysterious dark organization seemed to recognize this about Ahote, too.
What this organization was called was an uncertainty to Ahote, and while he was adamant about transparency when it comes to these things, it soon no longer held any importance to him like it did before. Why? Well, it never seemed to matter after he was employed and was now out on the field taking his first job under their employment.
His first job under their employment. Ahote repeated this in his head and scoffed triumphantly when he did as he made his way to Lavanitir Port City, or more specifically, a warehouse at the very outskirts of the city. Just the morning before, the wife of some corporate headhunter had been kidnapped by a terror group, and in exchange for her safe return they demanded some ransom. Apparently, the husband had refused or run out of the options offered to him and resorted to this dark organization’s services. Fortunately for the husband, Ahote—no, Jericho—Jericho didn’t want to be there any more than the hostage did, so it would therefore end quickly.
The terror group weren’t difficult to track down. After all, where in a densely populated city would a terror group who was demanding ransom go? Anything even near the center of the city was insensible and unlikely, so it would have to be somewhere in the outskirts that was both inaccessible and obscure. So, consequently, they must’ve been in the abandoned warehouse in an closed off construction area. It wasn’t like an average person would find themselves there and, although the spot seemed cleverly chosen, Jericho simply thought, “Oh, where would dumb criminals hide in a city such as this?” Then he thought that if he were a dumb criminal, he’d hide in an abandoned warehouse as was such expected from a, well, dumb criminal.
STATISTICS
HP: x/y
MP: x/y
Spells Used: xxx
Abilities Active: xxx
Weapons Equipped: xxx
Monsters Killed: xxx
Other Notes:
HP: x/y
MP: x/y
Spells Used: xxx
Abilities Active: xxx
Weapons Equipped: xxx
Monsters Killed: xxx
Other Notes:
IVYLEAF33