Re: LAST. THING. STANDING. [S!1][OPEN FOR SUBMISSION]
11-25-2011, 06:54 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by WaveOfBabies.
Name: Ablendan Blake
Gender: Male
Race: Demonic Servant
Color: #437C17
Equipment/Abilities: The only equipment Ablendan carries is his worn and tattered cloak, which covers his entire body. The cloak is quite pointless as an actual piece of armor, and only serves to mask his horrible appearance from the rest of the world. It can also store the Flies of Beelzebub, who are simultaneously his defenders and tormentors. Other than this cloak, Ablendan carries no equipment into battle besides his own body.
Fortunately for Ablendan, though, his physical abilities are actually pretty impressive. While one may think his diseased, weakened body would be fragile, he is surprisingly agile and sturdy. His long clawed hands and feet, while not doing any favors when he tries to hold something, make climbing and digging quite easy. He is capable of making long, pouncing leaps, which combined with his long claws allow him to easily attack opponents. His body is very tolerant to harm, especially because of the constant torment that he lives in at the hands of Beelzebub. Even if parts of his body are broken further than they already are, he still keeps moving because his pain tolerance has reached incredibly high levels. If one removed both of his legs and one of his arms, for example, he would still be crawling after them with his one functioning arm. Of course, even with his many demonic gifts he is still only a man. And like any man, without a brain or a heart he is pretty much done for.
The Flies of Beelzebub, however, are some of his greatest assets. The flies follow him in a black, unrelenting cloud, buzzing with the voice of Beelzebub himself. Their bites sting like hellfire, but can only cause pain instead of lasting harm. Through great numbers they can achieve great feats of strength, such as forming a solid platform, functioning as living shields, or lifting about as much as an average human male. Their buzzing is incredibly annoying, and being forced to listen to it is a torment. The most surprising use of the Flies of Beelzebub, however, is their ability to plug up wounds. As Ablendan continues to fight, more and more of his wounds might find themselves forcibly sealed up by the flies. The wounds will never truly fixed until actual healing sets in, but the flies make dealing lasting damage more of a struggle. Being flies they are still easily killed, but their great numbers make this harder.
Description: Ablendan is, to put it lightly, a horror show. Usually he is covered in a cloak, resembling a short, cloaked figure. But the reason for his appearance is revealed all too easily when his cloak is actually removed. His skin is grey and hard with rigor mortis, his eyes a piercing red color. His veins are a tarry black and quite visible through his pale, grey skin. His short appearance is due to severe scoliosis, causing him to hunch over like a feral beast. His teeth are jagged and elongated like fangs, and his nails have grown and hardened into claws. His body is emaciated, revealing gnarled and twisted ribs. His arms and legs are surprisingly long and slightly twisted, giving him a constant limping gait. His entire body is covered in boils and tumors, his jaw hangs open as if cracked, and one of his eyes is nothing more than a hollow socket. His hair has all fallen out, only snow white patches remaining, and he smells like a defiled graveyard.
Ablendan's mental state is similarly damaged. After living for nearly hundreds of years like a feral beast on the run, that is what he has become. He runs solely on desire, both his desire to hunt and kill and his desire to accept death's sweet embrace. Rather than higher mental functions usually being at work, he instead focuses on an animalistic cunning. Complicated thinking processes give way to cunning, a knowledge of fight and flight, and pure instinct. However, deep down, he is still human, and there are some lines he just refuses to cross. Unless in the midst of a bloody feeding frenzy, he refuses to hurt children and will attack anybody who tries to harm them. He also pities other people who were wronged by divine beings, and might try to help them instead of killing them. Of course, at the smell of fresh blood and his master's commands to feed, these few remaining morals are incredibly likely to be lost. When he smells fresh blood he loses control of himself, attacking in a sharklike frenzy even more brutal than his usual attacks.
Biography / Short Piece of Writing: The following is a series of excerpts supposedly from an esteemed English nobleman, Ablendan Blake. He mysteriously vanished around the turn of the century, after making a miraculous recovery from a seemingly incurable disease. Nobody knows where or how he had vanished, but one day his manor was found burned to the ground, with no trace of his body found. Some think he fled the country, while others assume he merely died in a fire. All that is known is that, years later, this cryptic document was found. Some believe it to be the actual journal of Ablendan, while others think it to be a fraud. Debate continues to rage over this.
~~~~
Entry 1 - 3/13/1745
A horrible ailment has come over me in the past week, and nothing I seem to try cures it. Every cure I have been prescribed, through tonic, bleeding, or even prayer, has made no success in curing my ills. With each day my condition worsens, as I watch my attempts at curing myself fail miserably. I've visited clergymen, physicians, and even the occasional witch-woman, and yet nothing seems to work. Must I only sit back and watch as I slowly find myself heading toward the afterlife? Is there no way for me to help myself? At this point, I fear the only thing I can do is watch and hope.
Entry 2 - 3/24/1745
My condition has reached all-time lows. My skin grows yellow with jaundice, my fevers have reached burning hot levels of severity, and I find myself routinely bleeding in my eyes and mouth. Even my vomit is blackened with blood, and I do not feel I have long for this world unless I do something drastic. While poring through the few books I own, I noticed a manuscript on how to summon creatures of the lower realm. If the graces of heaven can do nothing to help me, maybe I'll have better luck with the forces of hell. My friends try to warn me, citing the teachings of the Church and the tale of Dr. Faustus, but their words fall on deaf ears. There is no price I wouldn't pay to end this suffering.
Entry 3 - 4/1/1745
The summoning has worked. With what I feared may be my last breaths, I have succeeded in summoning a servant of the demonic prince Beelzebub. If the Lord of the Flies can provide disease, surely he can take it away. On the 25th of March I made this summon, pledging my soul to the plague-bearer as his servant in exchange for eternal life and an end to my ailment. Things are finally looking up for me.
Entry 4 - 6/16/1746
It has been a year since I have pledged myself to the Lord of the Flies. Life continues as normal, other than a few oddities. People seem to avoid me as if I was cursed, and whenever I pass vermin they followed me as if I am their master. The faint smell of rotted flesh is ever-present. At times these suspicions make me question my deal, but Beelzebub makes many promises to secure my soul. He seduces me with promises of great power, my own familiar, and triumphing over even the inevitability of death. Maybe I shall stick with this deal, and see how far things go.
Entry 5 - 1/28/1750
Each year, things grow worse. Clouds of flies routinely follow me, the sound of their buzzing never leaving my ears. Sometimes I wake up to find my hair falling out. My skin grows pale and cracked. The smell of rotten flesh, once barely present, is now overwhelming. But master promises great things, and I will achieve them.
Entry 6 - 4/9/1755
Hunger overwhelming. Need to feed. The flies need to feed too. Killed a man in the darkest part of the woods and fed until satisfied. Dear God, what have I done?
Entry 7 - 4/10/1755
Invoking the Cursed One's name angered master. Struck me with horrific boils and tumors. Through the largest one he speaks to me, his voice cold and painful. He tells me to feed, to kill, to give in to my urges. Humans are repulsed by my very sight, some attacking me on the spot. They are perfect to feed on.
Entry 8 - 9/18/1765
Cold. So cold. Cold as death. Plagued appearance continues to spread. Hair fallen out completely, bones grow gnarled and twisted, teeth and nails long and haggard. Look and feel like a corpse. Need to wear a cloak just to leave own house.
Entry 9 - 7/7/1770
Master speaks with many voices. He speaks through the boils, the flies, the screams of my fresh victims. Master is proud. He wants me to continue. I must please him. If I don't, my suffering only worsens.
Entry 10 - 8/10/1775
No human contact besides feeding in years. Friends and family all moved on or dead. What use is immortality without someone to live with? Time goes on, body weakens and ages, but no death comes. Although, even if I cannot die, maybe I can be killed? Will have to test this.
Entry 11 - 4/21/1780
Pain. Pain and suffering. It grows worse with each year, with each mistake I make. Will it never end? I asked master how long deal lasted. Woke up the next morning with scars on my arm spelling "In Omne Tempus." Truly, I have made a great error. Feeding only thing to ease pain. Must keep feeding, even as appetite grows.
Entry 12 - 2/28/1783
I can handle no more. I'm going to end it all. I will burn my manor, burn my books, burn everything in hopes to finish the job. Maybe this will end me. Maybe I can finally die. Consider this the last you hear from Ablendan Blake.
~~~~
This was the final entry of Ablendan Blake's supposed journal. However, some claim to have found a thirteenth entry. From tattered and ruined remains of Blake's manuscripts, this final entry has been pieced together.
~~~~
Entry 13 - 3/4/1783
It failed. I burned the house and waited in the fires, but the flies carried me away. I try to throw myself off the cliffs, the flies catch me. When I try to drown myself, they pull me out of the water. They plug self-inflicted wounds. My dark master will not let me die, it seems. I will continue to wander the earth, in hopes of finding something or someone strong enough to end this torment.
And if they aren't? They shall be the next to be fed upon.
Name: Ablendan Blake
Gender: Male
Race: Demonic Servant
Color: #437C17
Equipment/Abilities: The only equipment Ablendan carries is his worn and tattered cloak, which covers his entire body. The cloak is quite pointless as an actual piece of armor, and only serves to mask his horrible appearance from the rest of the world. It can also store the Flies of Beelzebub, who are simultaneously his defenders and tormentors. Other than this cloak, Ablendan carries no equipment into battle besides his own body.
Fortunately for Ablendan, though, his physical abilities are actually pretty impressive. While one may think his diseased, weakened body would be fragile, he is surprisingly agile and sturdy. His long clawed hands and feet, while not doing any favors when he tries to hold something, make climbing and digging quite easy. He is capable of making long, pouncing leaps, which combined with his long claws allow him to easily attack opponents. His body is very tolerant to harm, especially because of the constant torment that he lives in at the hands of Beelzebub. Even if parts of his body are broken further than they already are, he still keeps moving because his pain tolerance has reached incredibly high levels. If one removed both of his legs and one of his arms, for example, he would still be crawling after them with his one functioning arm. Of course, even with his many demonic gifts he is still only a man. And like any man, without a brain or a heart he is pretty much done for.
The Flies of Beelzebub, however, are some of his greatest assets. The flies follow him in a black, unrelenting cloud, buzzing with the voice of Beelzebub himself. Their bites sting like hellfire, but can only cause pain instead of lasting harm. Through great numbers they can achieve great feats of strength, such as forming a solid platform, functioning as living shields, or lifting about as much as an average human male. Their buzzing is incredibly annoying, and being forced to listen to it is a torment. The most surprising use of the Flies of Beelzebub, however, is their ability to plug up wounds. As Ablendan continues to fight, more and more of his wounds might find themselves forcibly sealed up by the flies. The wounds will never truly fixed until actual healing sets in, but the flies make dealing lasting damage more of a struggle. Being flies they are still easily killed, but their great numbers make this harder.
Description: Ablendan is, to put it lightly, a horror show. Usually he is covered in a cloak, resembling a short, cloaked figure. But the reason for his appearance is revealed all too easily when his cloak is actually removed. His skin is grey and hard with rigor mortis, his eyes a piercing red color. His veins are a tarry black and quite visible through his pale, grey skin. His short appearance is due to severe scoliosis, causing him to hunch over like a feral beast. His teeth are jagged and elongated like fangs, and his nails have grown and hardened into claws. His body is emaciated, revealing gnarled and twisted ribs. His arms and legs are surprisingly long and slightly twisted, giving him a constant limping gait. His entire body is covered in boils and tumors, his jaw hangs open as if cracked, and one of his eyes is nothing more than a hollow socket. His hair has all fallen out, only snow white patches remaining, and he smells like a defiled graveyard.
Ablendan's mental state is similarly damaged. After living for nearly hundreds of years like a feral beast on the run, that is what he has become. He runs solely on desire, both his desire to hunt and kill and his desire to accept death's sweet embrace. Rather than higher mental functions usually being at work, he instead focuses on an animalistic cunning. Complicated thinking processes give way to cunning, a knowledge of fight and flight, and pure instinct. However, deep down, he is still human, and there are some lines he just refuses to cross. Unless in the midst of a bloody feeding frenzy, he refuses to hurt children and will attack anybody who tries to harm them. He also pities other people who were wronged by divine beings, and might try to help them instead of killing them. Of course, at the smell of fresh blood and his master's commands to feed, these few remaining morals are incredibly likely to be lost. When he smells fresh blood he loses control of himself, attacking in a sharklike frenzy even more brutal than his usual attacks.
Biography / Short Piece of Writing: The following is a series of excerpts supposedly from an esteemed English nobleman, Ablendan Blake. He mysteriously vanished around the turn of the century, after making a miraculous recovery from a seemingly incurable disease. Nobody knows where or how he had vanished, but one day his manor was found burned to the ground, with no trace of his body found. Some think he fled the country, while others assume he merely died in a fire. All that is known is that, years later, this cryptic document was found. Some believe it to be the actual journal of Ablendan, while others think it to be a fraud. Debate continues to rage over this.
~~~~
Entry 1 - 3/13/1745
A horrible ailment has come over me in the past week, and nothing I seem to try cures it. Every cure I have been prescribed, through tonic, bleeding, or even prayer, has made no success in curing my ills. With each day my condition worsens, as I watch my attempts at curing myself fail miserably. I've visited clergymen, physicians, and even the occasional witch-woman, and yet nothing seems to work. Must I only sit back and watch as I slowly find myself heading toward the afterlife? Is there no way for me to help myself? At this point, I fear the only thing I can do is watch and hope.
Entry 2 - 3/24/1745
My condition has reached all-time lows. My skin grows yellow with jaundice, my fevers have reached burning hot levels of severity, and I find myself routinely bleeding in my eyes and mouth. Even my vomit is blackened with blood, and I do not feel I have long for this world unless I do something drastic. While poring through the few books I own, I noticed a manuscript on how to summon creatures of the lower realm. If the graces of heaven can do nothing to help me, maybe I'll have better luck with the forces of hell. My friends try to warn me, citing the teachings of the Church and the tale of Dr. Faustus, but their words fall on deaf ears. There is no price I wouldn't pay to end this suffering.
Entry 3 - 4/1/1745
The summoning has worked. With what I feared may be my last breaths, I have succeeded in summoning a servant of the demonic prince Beelzebub. If the Lord of the Flies can provide disease, surely he can take it away. On the 25th of March I made this summon, pledging my soul to the plague-bearer as his servant in exchange for eternal life and an end to my ailment. Things are finally looking up for me.
Entry 4 - 6/16/1746
It has been a year since I have pledged myself to the Lord of the Flies. Life continues as normal, other than a few oddities. People seem to avoid me as if I was cursed, and whenever I pass vermin they followed me as if I am their master. The faint smell of rotted flesh is ever-present. At times these suspicions make me question my deal, but Beelzebub makes many promises to secure my soul. He seduces me with promises of great power, my own familiar, and triumphing over even the inevitability of death. Maybe I shall stick with this deal, and see how far things go.
Entry 5 - 1/28/1750
Each year, things grow worse. Clouds of flies routinely follow me, the sound of their buzzing never leaving my ears. Sometimes I wake up to find my hair falling out. My skin grows pale and cracked. The smell of rotten flesh, once barely present, is now overwhelming. But master promises great things, and I will achieve them.
Entry 6 - 4/9/1755
Hunger overwhelming. Need to feed. The flies need to feed too. Killed a man in the darkest part of the woods and fed until satisfied. Dear God, what have I done?
Entry 7 - 4/10/1755
Invoking the Cursed One's name angered master. Struck me with horrific boils and tumors. Through the largest one he speaks to me, his voice cold and painful. He tells me to feed, to kill, to give in to my urges. Humans are repulsed by my very sight, some attacking me on the spot. They are perfect to feed on.
Entry 8 - 9/18/1765
Cold. So cold. Cold as death. Plagued appearance continues to spread. Hair fallen out completely, bones grow gnarled and twisted, teeth and nails long and haggard. Look and feel like a corpse. Need to wear a cloak just to leave own house.
Entry 9 - 7/7/1770
Master speaks with many voices. He speaks through the boils, the flies, the screams of my fresh victims. Master is proud. He wants me to continue. I must please him. If I don't, my suffering only worsens.
Entry 10 - 8/10/1775
No human contact besides feeding in years. Friends and family all moved on or dead. What use is immortality without someone to live with? Time goes on, body weakens and ages, but no death comes. Although, even if I cannot die, maybe I can be killed? Will have to test this.
Entry 11 - 4/21/1780
Pain. Pain and suffering. It grows worse with each year, with each mistake I make. Will it never end? I asked master how long deal lasted. Woke up the next morning with scars on my arm spelling "In Omne Tempus." Truly, I have made a great error. Feeding only thing to ease pain. Must keep feeding, even as appetite grows.
Entry 12 - 2/28/1783
I can handle no more. I'm going to end it all. I will burn my manor, burn my books, burn everything in hopes to finish the job. Maybe this will end me. Maybe I can finally die. Consider this the last you hear from Ablendan Blake.
~~~~
This was the final entry of Ablendan Blake's supposed journal. However, some claim to have found a thirteenth entry. From tattered and ruined remains of Blake's manuscripts, this final entry has been pieced together.
~~~~
Entry 13 - 3/4/1783
It failed. I burned the house and waited in the fires, but the flies carried me away. I try to throw myself off the cliffs, the flies catch me. When I try to drown myself, they pull me out of the water. They plug self-inflicted wounds. My dark master will not let me die, it seems. I will continue to wander the earth, in hopes of finding something or someone strong enough to end this torment.
And if they aren't? They shall be the next to be fed upon.