» PLAYER INFORMATION
Player NAME: Liz
Current AGE: 23
Personal JOURNAL: thebutt
IM & SERVICE: the p0rn nun
Player PLURK: buttadventure
Current CHARACTERS: Artika

» CHARACTER INFORMATION
Character NAME: Samhain
Character PULL-POINT: About a year after his release from the Lighthouse.
Character AGE: 26
Character ABILITIES: He has no supernatural abilities, but he's an excellent fighter. He prefers to fight barehanded, and knows a few martial art styles for it, but can use weapons if he needs to. Best with bladed and blunt weapons, guns are still too obscure for him to have learned how to effectively use, and archery took too much patience and zen to ever be very good at. A mercenary lifestyle has kept him in good shape, and he's stronger, faster, with better endurance than average.

Character HISTORY: Samwell Tanner's father was not a kind man, as everyone in their small town agreed. Alton Tanner's leatherwork was good enough to keep people tolerant of his foul temper, but he could not be called popular. Some said his temper only got worse after the death of his wife, succumbed to childbirth when his son was three, and taking with her his would-be daughter. Others added in a muttered undertone that it had only gotten worse because he no longer had an outlet for his aggressions. Samwell would have disagreed with them, because his father always seemed to find a reason to discipline him, and every misdeed, great or small, warranted the same heavy-handed beating. It would have seemed to him that his father had a very good outlet for his aggressions, indeed.

But Sam wasn't an unhappy child, if he tended to be quiet and solemn. He learned how to survive with his father. As Alton was often drunk, it was really best to simply stay out of his way until the man had passed out for the night, and so Sam did. After all, he wouldn't have to spend too long with the man. Maybe he would move out when he was 16, and start a life of his own, away from him. But in the meantime, he spent most of his days outside, which became more a treat than a burden when he found himself a dog. Marie, he named her. She was young, still an excitable puppy, and it was Sam's delight to keep her fed and give her company, even if he knew better than to take her home. His father would never allow a dog, not the way he griped when he had to scrape enough money together to feed Samwell. As it turned out, Sam was right. When his father happened upon his son wasting his food on some mangy stray, he wasn't happy. Sam was 13 when his father drunkenly beat the dog to its death in front of him, and 13 very suddenly seemed more than old enough to move out of his father's house.

He wasn't completely out of his father's sight, though, not in such a small town. He'd found himself a job in the local bakery, and delivered loaves to Alton now and then. The exchanges between them were short and sullen, Sam doing his best to finish and retreat as soon as possible, and Alton full of nothing but scorn and (sometimes violent) mockery for the baker boy. Alton seemed to get more and more cruel, and even from a distance, Sam hated him more each time he saw him. It was on one of these delivery trips that Sam discovered Alton had found a replacement for his late wife. Specifically, he'd found a woman to take his frustrations out on, with clenched fists, against the wall behind the shop. It marked the end of Sam's tolerance, and Alton's best shears marked the leatherworker's death.

At age 14, Samwell decided it would be for the best if he left the town altogether and struck out on his own. Two years earlier than intended, but what was the harm? He had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd end up in jail if he hadn't decided to leave with a satchel full of all the food and supplies he could carry. But of course, Sam soon found out exactly what the harm was, when a band of men surrounded him on the road, a few days outside of town. They were hard men, happy to take all his supplies, and unable to believe he had no money to give them. It had been suggested that the boy pay them with his life, if not with his coin, when Benton Pace came up the road and proved his excellent timing. He also proved his skill in unarmed combat, when he took down four of the men, and convinced the others they'd have better luck elsewhere. Sam was impressed. He traveled with Benton after that, partly for protection and partly for awe. The man was a sell sword, he learned, although he preferred to fight with bare hands. He began to teach Sam as they traveled, and Sam proved to have an aptitude for fighting. By the time they'd reached Benton's destination, the city of Old Sea, Benton agreed to find work for them as a pair. They worked well together for the better part of two years, and Sam couldn't have been more pleased. Benton was a good teacher, and a kind man. He would stop to help people, and never raised a hand against a woman, child, or animal. Unless, of course, he was paid to do it. Benton was a mercenary through and through, and money negated his personal code of ethics whenever the two came into conflict. Sam asked him about it, after Benton had taken money to cut down a man that the two of them had stopped to help pull with his wagon out of a patch of mud only a week ago. Good deeds didn't keep a man fed, Benton had told him. Samwell didn't ask again. After all, Benton was a good man, and far better than Alton.

Sam would have been happy to follow and fight under Benton for however long the man allowed it, if Benton hadn't one day picked the wrong client. The two of them had been hired in a particularly gruesome civil war, and their company proved to be outnumbered. Men were throwing down their swords and running or being cut down, and the press of the enemy soon had them surrounded, unable to escape. Benton held their adversaries off at a bottleneck and told Sam to run, and what else was there to do? Sam ran. He ran even as he heard Benton cut down behind him, and ran until he could run no more. He wasn't out of the city though, and the first building he found to duck into proved to be the worst choice. The brothel, as it turned out to be, was playing host to a load of bloodthirsty and desperate men, killing some women, taking others. Sam didn't have the time to pick up a sword and defend any of the women, not even to back out again. Directly behind him came the City Guard, and the entire lot of men in the building, Sam included, were taken prisoner and introduced into a rank, filthy, communal cell, deep under the city's keep.

It took two months for one of the prisoner's brothers to finally stage a breakout, and the plan was to hold it during the city's Samhain festival. Participants would be disguised under masks and elaborate costumes, what better time for the confusion of a mass escape? And so Samwell had two months to learn about his fellow captives. He listened to their crude jokes and proud bragging. This man had killed half of a village, that man had raped the other half. One man laughed as he told how he had personally slain the infant daughter of a lord he'd been hired to war against. These were the worst of sell swords, and nothing like Benton had been. Sam had long since learned how to keep his hatred quiet, though, and the men regarded him as one of their own. Until the break out, of course. It wasn't hard to be ready. When the brother showed up with bloody and freshly stolen keys in hand, Sam was the first out. The door slammed behind him, the brother's sword was wrested away (a victory of surprise as much as it was of strength) and jammed into the bolt's slot. Sam killed the brother himself with his bare hands, as he'd been taught. And for the rest of the men, by now shouting in outrage and alarm from behind the bars, a torch from the wall would do. The floor was covered in straw, after all, and straw burns easily.

Samwell was the only one to flee that night, and he slipped out more easily than a party of 50 bloodthirsty men would have done, there wasn't even any need for a lavish disguise. A simple one worked just fine, and he found for himself a few beggar's rags and a long cloak, as well as a new name. A new name, for that long-awaited life of his own at 16. He would be Samhain.

Samhain tried to be a mercenary, as Benton had been. He was certainly skilled enough to earn himself a living, and scraped by well enough for eight years. But he could never bring himself to kill those who didn't deserve it, and he could never keep out of fights with those who did. The practice got him thrown into jail more than a few times. But Samhain always found his way out again, by force or by good behavior, and he always stayed just ahead of his reputation. But always a few towns behind him were mounting stories of a dark-dressed murderer. A skilled fighter, who killed who he liked. An oath-breaker who would take your money and then your life, if he didn't like you.

It was in the desert city of Sinai that his deeds finally caught up with him, and at the same time, a company of more men than he could fight. He was once again thrown into jail, but this time it wasn't one he was like to break out of any time soon. This was the Lighthouse, Sinai's specialty, remote and built for the worst of the worst. And the Lighthouse was where Aranya found him. Aranya was a clever woman with strong ambition, but brand-new to life on her own. She was a noblewoman who had robbed her husband blind, and needed someone else to finish the man for her. All the quick thinking and ambition in the world couldn't make up for the fact that she'd never held a weapon before in her life. She needed a man like Samhain. He was at first determined to refuse her, even after she'd bought his freedom for him, but the woman wouldn't leave him alone. She followed him everywhere, determined to win him over eventually. And although Samhain began to see bits of the kindness of Benton in her, it wasn't enough. Not until her husband finally caught up with her, that was. Cleto may have been a kind man, usually. He could have been a saint. But when he burst into Aranya's newly acquired tiny house, blinded by rage and shouting for her death, all Samhain could see in him was Alton. And so he obliged Aranya after all.

He would have left then, if it had been up to him, but Aranya refused it. She demanded that he stay, at least for lunch. Lunch turned into dinner, dinner turned into breakfast, and back into lunch again. Samhain realized that he really had no where else to go. He stayed, and got to know Aranya. She had big plans for the city, now that she was free of her husband (and backed by all of his wealth), but she was going to need help. The sort of help Samhain could provide, he could see that clearly. And, well, why not? In time, resignation turned into willingness, and willingness even turned into admiration. Aranya was a good woman; even as she wanted power, she wanted to do good with it. The woman had a commanding manner and a hard front, but under that, she cared. She would steal every last one of a nobleman's possessions, walk away gloating of her gains, bragging about what she would do with it, and furtively flip a poor begging woman a solid gold coin as she passed her. Admiration, sooner or later, became steadfast loyalty. Her climb to power in the underworld of Sinai would prove to be a slow one, but successful. Within just a few yeas, people would come to whisper the name "Aranya" with equal parts fear and respect, both for her, and the powerful people she'd won the loyalty from. But Samhain will be from before that, when she's still new to her struggle, and he's new to liking someone quite so much.

Character PERSONALITY: In a word, Samhain is intimidating. He's ridiculously tall, well muscled, and never smiles. He's the guy at the back of the room with arms crossed over his chest, dressed in all black, that never says a word, and has forgotten how to do anything but scowl. Even down to the dark makeup under his eyes, Samhain's appearance is not calculated to make any friends. Because Samhain is a mercenary, dammit. A ruthless sell sword who would slit your grandmother's throat if you gave him a dollar for it. He's the guy you never want to mess with, you don't even want to look at him funny.

…Or at least, that's what he'd like the world to think.

The look he has is one he's perfected over the years, because it's a hell of a lot easier if people assume all that about you, and you don't have to prove it. And Samhain would really rather not prove anything to anyone. All he really wants to do is survive his day without being bothered, and hopefully have enough money to buy dinner by the end of it. A lot gets in the way of that kind of a simple life, though. People being assholes, for example. If there's some rowdy drunk bothering a woman in a bar, well, Samhain can't just let that go, can he? He'd really like to walk out the door and ignore it, but that's just not happening. The next best thing would be to put the guy in his place and quietly slink away again, but that doesn't usually happen either. There's all these things like laws, and upset barkeeps, and jails. It's all such a hassle, can't Samhain just do away with it all? No? Well, since he has to…

Resignation makes up a big part of Samhain's daily routine. If he's currently in jail when he wakes up in the morning, well, damn. It looks like he won't be doing a whole lot until he gets a chance to go free. By legal means or by break out, it doesn't matter too much to him. And then once he is out, most likely with a deep breath and a quiet vow to just do his job and ignore whatever the rest of the world is doing over there, then it's back to business as usual. Taking coin for causing people pain, it's what he does best. Just go along to get along. And… and you want him to kill that father of two? But he doesn't even look like he's done anything to anyone. In fact, he looks pretty nice. What, you mean you just want him dead because he owes you money? Well, that won't do…

And then he's in jail again, for the murder of a loan shark, staring at the wall with a heavy sigh.

But there's more than just a run-down acceptance to Samhain. The anger there is real, when he sees misdeeds and cruelty. He's good at killing, and he's not afraid to do it. The people that the world won't miss are his targets, the ones that bring more harm than they do good. And if he's ever wondered if it should really be him playing judge, jury, and executioner— well, it's never stopped him yet. That quiet outrage to see the downtrodden abused is too strong for silly moral questions like that.

And just like anger runs hot under the dour surface, so does loyalty. If you've proved to Samhain that you're someone good, someone worth protection and admiration, then it's entirely likely that you've hooked Samhain for the long run. People he's deemed good even get a free pass at occasional acts of assholery, and Samhain can be a little willfully blind to things like that. And if his protection and admiration ascend to love, then god help you, you can pretty much murder someone in front of him, and for all his scowls and discomfort, he's still your man.

» EXSILIUM INFORMATION
Chosen WEAPON: Samhain's weapon would be a shield! At first it would be only a shield, but eventually he'll get creative with it, Captain America style. And slowly maybe it… armors more and more of his body, or grows, or something. IT'LL BE SLOW, I'LL FIGURE THAT OUT WHEN I GET THERE.
Chosen SKILLSET: Definitely a fighter! Since it's… all he's good at…

» SAMPLES
First PERSON: [ AUDIO ]

[ For a while there's just… a long, awkward pause. Really faint little shuffling sounds, so you know someone's there. Maybe someone recording unintentionally?? But then, eventually: ]

No one here's heard of Sinai, have they. [ flat, not a question. ] I heard you'd all be strangers. Everyone from a different world, right.

[ Another pause. ]

What am I supposed to do here?

[ And another! Long and awkward. ]

I'm Samhain.

Third PERSON:
There wasn't much to do in a jail cell. Samhain would know. He was the leading expert on jail cells.

This one wasn't bad, though, as jail cells went. It was roomy, at least. He'd been in cells crammed full of men, through the years. Never as bad as that first time he'd found himself in jail, crammed in with the blackest of laughing murderers for two months (it'd ended in flames and screams, but Samhain would prefer not to think about that), but there'd been tight fits. But this one? Goddamn spacious, compared to those.

So Samhain sat in his spacious cell, elbows rested on his long legs, watching the wall. A spider crawled down one of the cracks, and so he watched that instead, for a while. For variety. And when the spider decided there wasn't much interesting going on in here, and checked out of the cell through its crack, Samhain obligingly went back to watching the wall again.

It'd been three weeks. It didn't look like they were going to let him out any time soon. This was one of those jails where the guards really didn't care about much at all. They'd feed you once a day, maybe twice, if they remembered, and empty your bucket every other day. But letting you out would mean paper work, and hell. They just weren't made of time, you know. He'd stayed in a jail like this for three months, once. He'd made pretty good friends with the guy next to him before he'd finally gotten out (illegally, in that case, but sometimes he waits his time out, like a good prisoner). But Samhain didn't have a neighbor in this jail, and the closest man to him wasn't much of a conversationalist. Of course, neither was Samhain, but then Samhain also still had a tongue in his mouth, unlike this fellow.

Well, not much to it. It looked like he'd be getting out early, or not at all.

When he finally moved, it was just to flick his eyes up, to where the bars met the ceiling. Loose. With a little persuasion, he might kick down two or three of the bars. Or, he thought, as he heard the jangle of keys down a corridor announce dinner time, he might keep it simple. After three weeks, the guards didn't view the guy that sat around and did nothing as much of a threat.

He'd be out in no time.