by 924twinblade924 9th April 2014, 6:13 am
OOC: Forgive me for the intrusion, and the fact that this entrance post is 700 words long... This character in question is named "P.", short for "Phoenix", his back-round is shrouded in mystery and blood-shed. I hate to sound like he may be disabled, but "He needs an adult". He believes The Lamia-scale guild hall (or what he thinks is a mead hall), would be a place of companionship and safety for someone of "His kind".
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The heart of ‘Hargeon’, marble towers unlike any other architecture in Earth land. Located in the center of Hargeon Town at the heart of the cities reconstruction, stood the Lamia Scale guild hall…. To some it may have been fascinating, inspiring, beautiful even. But to the few that despised beauty and creation, such a person would stare upon the building and loathe it? Annoying, the mere reflection of the water that surrounded the tower would enrage and even blind such a spiteful person. Standing directly in front of the golden doors on artisan stone hinges , just as detailed as the rest of the guild hall, engraved with indentations and markings that would eventually form a Lamia scale insignia; if you had been looking from a distance, whereas the one before the door placed his forehead against the door. Annoyed, disturbed, and likely not in the right mind on any accounts, the man grunted, for the doors had no handles.
The man before the guild’s vast golden doors was of average height (5'9"), having fair bright red hair on a scalp that had mostly been burnt and scar-covered by years of ‘wear and tear’; his hair was styled into a tribunal braided Mohawk going down the back of his head in a long braid that had been adorned with Norse beads. Despite having handsome facial features, his torched skin would’ve been easily identified as ‘burns of the third degree’ (nearly down to the bone), and from what it looked like, the burns were over his entire body excluding the scalp, the mere expression(his eyes are closed, and he’s giving an ‘angry face’) and scars on his face made him look older than he really was. The rags adorned by the man were elegant dress cloths, the kind a prince might’ve worn to a ball if not covered in blood.
From behind, the clothing looked beautiful, even the kinsman’s Mohawk would have been given the impression that he was a noble (due to the solid gold bands and beads in the braid); as if he had stepped right out of a painting, despite the skin color, but from up front they were torn and ravaged by man, monster and beast alike. A white button-up long sleeved with gold insignia’s stained by bodily fluid that could only be identified as ‘that which drips from the wounded’, the sleeves were absolutely ruined, its elbows were torn and, whatever remained of the forearm of the sleeves were, like his mouth, drenched in blood that could neither be identified as fresh or dry. The pants the man wore were some form of baggy leather that had plates on the knees and thighs, but otherwise provided no real protection physically, his boots were plated as well; the large bolts in the boots seemed large enough that they might go into the poor man’s leg. Over his 'Noble garbs', he had chains dangling from his neck, the kind a prison might have to restrain something that was far stronger than a normal man, there must have been over 250 pounds worth of rusted metal were bound around his neck, his hands were cuffed together, a ball and chain was attached to his right ankle…How was he standing straight up without a problem? (All the chains are rusted to the point where they might be over 100 years old)
Where on earth did he come from? Another time, another world, or even another land? Those clothes were decades old! Upon crossing a few people in a long hallway from where the golden door was, the lad entered the Main Hall where the party was going on. The expression on his face changed from a rabid growling animal to someone that actually seemed to be relatively sane 'in the membrane'. Of course you would have to ignore the fact his face was covered in burns, blood, and his ruined white shirt stained with blood. "..." Despite the dancers and performers popping up out of Odin knows where, the Lad's attention was still on the 'Elderly fellow'. It was hard to depict where his tattoo was, or if he had any claim of membership to this guild at all, he may have just been a passer by drawn by the noise and lights. If he wasn't a magician at the very least, perhaps a Battle Mage or some form of Warrior Shaman? He was here for the guild if nothing else, Joining them was a priority even if the lights and dancers were, to him, repulsive and annoying at the very least.
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OOC Again: Forgive me if this was long... He isn't the kind that enjoys parties, nor is he the kind to shake hands. He speaks kind of "off", instead of Yes, he says 'Aye', Boy or girl is 'Lad or Lass', and he sometimes misunderstands hug as "Smash". As a child in mercenary bands it was Hide and go Smash....