Rogan Dondarrion Age:
Lost Desert, Europe.Occupation:
Rogan’s physique is performance orientated, geared towards endurance rather than strength or the aesthetic. His muscles are not overly large and are instead chiseled into definition. He has a lean figure that holds some well sculpted muscle, is slim for his height but has a taut strength which belies his gaunt frame. He doesn’t appear overtly powerful at first glance more just tall and limber, but his athletic muscles have been strengthened by experience and many hard learned lessons. Rogan has a strong jaw line and an un-creased brow with piercingly blue eyes. There is wisdom and a sadness there beyond his years. His jet black hair is habitually tousled and unkempt and is long enough to fall over his eyes. A life in the desert, moving from one place to another constantly has given him a disheveled appearance which has become ingrained within his nature over the years. He has an open and honest, good natured countenance and these earnest looks have been useful in the past for gaining peoples trust. Rough strong hands are complemented with dextrous skilful fingers. Broad enough shoulders are flanked by long firm arm muscles and his toned chest leads to a faint line of washboard abs. He has the body of a man born and raised in the desert, hard, worn and tough as old leather.
Wearing a light armor weave made from wolf pelts and treated bone he appears at first glance to be a feral barbaric thing. In fact in sharp contrast to how he appears Rogan is quite civil and mild mannered. Life in the desert is a hard and simple existence. The endless dunes are never forgiving and as such supplies and materials are scant. Much of Rogan’s attire is nothing more than leather, fur and bone. He wields a steel short-sword strapped to his back. A weapon he wields with a veteran’s deftness. A long horn made from bone is always about his person, a tool his people use to communicate with in the desert.Personality:
Rogan’s character is one forged through events and times of horror and sacrifice, a time that either tempered ones spirit or shattered it entirely. He watched the destruction of his tribe from a-far, powerless to do anything but listen to the screams of his people borne over the wind. It left him without family, without friends, without his way of life and without a home; it of course affected his temperament. A mild mannered curious and joking boy gave way to a serious man with heavy memories. Where in the past he met strangers with openness he now instead holds a certain reserve. To this day he despises being helpless to aid comrades and is plagued with nightmares. He no longer prays to the gods, he does not believe they listen.
Damn stubborn, hard headed, obstinate and persistent. When passionate about something Rogan can be damn well near relentless. Whether attaining a goal, defending an ideal, or following a purpose Rogan has a quiet and resolute determination that enables him to do what few others can't or won't. He is incredibly stubborn; many a time when reason has demanded him to stop or flee he has instead stood his ground on shaking legs and through sheer perseverance prevailed over overwhelming odds. This trait of being unyielding has often landed him in situations where he should have backed down; instead he has in the past gotten himself into tough situations that could have been avoided. It earned him the nickname of “Never-yield” from his people. He knows what is right and what is wrong with a clear moral compass and a resolve that will not let him falter in the face of difficult choices. To him things mostly appear black and white, good and evil. Though he can forgive people of quite a lot since he understands that ultimately people are weak and have failings. The law, he understands is a thing created by man; and so he follows his own morality.
Once any kind of trust is established, Rogan is completely loyal; he places absolute faith in others and is extremely protective of both comrades and friends. This is because he adheres to a rather old-fashioned sense of duty, a trait gotten from living in such a small close knit community. Once gaining someone’s trust he would never betray and would do anything in his power to protect those he befriends or feels obligated to. This unwavering loyalty is a weakness as well as being one of the strengths in Rogan’s personality. Special Characteristics:
Metallurgy, combat.Stats: Spirit Power:
Special PowerGeneral Power:
Lost Tribe's Willpower-
Rogan, being the very last of his Nadir tribe, possesses the greatest powers and abilities of his tribe; Master Blacksmith and Potent Elementalist’s. Thus each of his abilities are slightly more powerful than they normally would of been.Techniques/Abilities:Ability 1:
Rogan is able to forge his weapon, instantly, into a stronger more durable version of his steel blade. Ultimately making him a match for Shinigami and Hollows. Ability 2:
The Nadir, Rogan's dead tribe, were capable magic uses(Basic Hado and Kido) users; as much as Humans could possibly be. This Ability allows him to shoot a sub-par level Kido blast from his palm. This is also more of a distraction than to actually deal any real damage.Ability 3:
The Nadir were somewhat gifted healers and being so, Rogan can heal the majority of injuries that he would sustain. Save for critical and life threatening ones. Cooldown- 2 postsHistory:
Rogan belonged to a simple people called the Nadir. Living in the Lost Deserts of Europe, they were a roaming folk that moved seasonally through the sandstorms. Stopping to trade at various points along the way, they were a drifting settlement of nomads essentially. Carving out a rough life for themselves amidst the hard wasteland, they survived by being peerless hunters. They dealt once a year with the people of the Middle East and with trade caravans from Europe's Empires for supplies. Other than those sparse interactions they were a reclusive people, only ever half glimpsed moving through the thick fog of the desert. The Nadir were strong in magic and the physical arts, a powerfully gifted tribe. Their community acted like a pack, prestige and honor going to those strongest. The alpha male was always the one who could channel the most power. The pack leader chosen to light their people’s way using his or her strength.
Rogan had always been an exception, the only Nadir to be without the gift of magic. Instead he had an unparalleled fortitude, an unnatural resilience that had at first vexed his people. It was wrong, it was deviant, his kind were powerful elementalists who were strong in evocation. Rogan hadn’t a trace of either power in his blood. And so for the majority of his upbringing he had been shunned by all but his elder brother 'Sigmar'. Always last in the pecking order, last to receive food rights, last to receive supply choices. Rogan had forever been at the bottom of his communities regard. Some pitied his weakness in magic but all feared his abnormal toughness. Once he had been spotted stopping the charge of a great Rhino with his bare hands, a beast almost twice as large as a man. Though the runt of his people, nothing could fell him, he was the odd one; he was the “Never-yield”. It was only through his brother’s interventions that he wasn’t outcast. His people were an isolationist community, and very superstitious.
At the end of every seasonal pilgrimage the Nadir would settle in a place sacred to their community. A place in the shadow of a great mountain that they called 'The Hand of Taneth'. And once every year a tradition was held. All the new blooded warriors were sent to climb as high as they could, before returning to the settlement as men. This rite of passage was not only a coming of age ritual but to see if the boys in question could cope without the assistance of their tight knit community. It was to see if they were strong enough to survive without the pack. With only their own strength and Arcana to protect them from the elements they would climb as close to the gods as could be achieved for a mortal. It was a brutal ceremony and deaths were common. Those that survived though enjoyed a position within the Nadir people, of recognized warriors and hunters. Something Rogan, due to his lack of spiritual strength, had never been.
It had come the year for Rogan’s rite of passage and he along with five other boys resolved to climb to the highest peak of the 'Hand’. It was a feat that had never been achieved, with good reason. The mountain was breath taking in its simple beauty and deadly in its sheer altitude. It was the highest point known in existence to the Nadir, and one that took days to climb even to its lower ranges. Breathing became labored and difficult once a certain height was reached, and eventually all breath is snatched away. The gods being jealous of their territory of course made it difficult for mortals who strove to reach it. The going was harder than the bold boys had thought. Indeed by the time they had reached a quarter of the way up, two of the five boys had already been forced to turn back. They would be greeted as men on their return but status went to those who ventured higher up the peek. And so with the three remaining boys Rogan continued to climb.
Day two saw another turn back, and the loss of another. A shrieking wind funneled through a narrow channel had torn an unlucky child, casting him screaming from the rock face. Rogan and the last remaining Nadir watched as he fell, eyes cold and pitying. They felt the loss as a wolf would feel the loss of a pack member.
On the third day of the climb, about two thirds of the way up Rogan lay resting in a small alcove. He and Vhorn, the only other remaining Nadir boy, had decided to rest up for the night. Sapped of strength, hungry and shaking because of the intense heat, they had agreed to head back by day break. It was night and outside the moon shone down onto the mountain with a pale luminance. Rogan had just shut his eyes and begun to feel the tug of weariness carry him under, when he was shaken violently by the other boy. Rogan was hurriedly taken to the mouth of the alcove and Vhorn stood looking grimly down, pointing to the large plain below the mountain. The Nadir encampment was burning. A great plume of thick black smoke was haloing the site, suspended as there was hardly a breeze that night, all was still and quiet. Rogan half imagined he could hear screaming drifting from below but knew it could only be in his head.
The boys made it down the mountain in little over a day, fear and desperation pushing them on. Though in the hurry Rogan fell from an outcrop; breaking his arm in the haste. Eventually though they reached the camp. Rogan and Vhorn looked over the yurts and picked through the remains. What they saw there was a picture of destruction, the very epitome of ruin. Everything they had ever known was gone, their pack, their people, entire families murdered. Not only that, the bodies had been defiled and abused. The two men (for had they not climbed the Hand?) picked their way through the wreckage. Rogan matted with dirt, blood crusting his finger nails and tears leaving dirty marks across his cheeks saw what had become of his home. And in the midst of strewn bodies and mutilated remains they found only marks of strange beasts.“The odors of burning flesh and spilled blood assaulted me when I crested the entrance to the camp. There had not been a square yard untouched by blood, which did not have a body lying there. Or if not a body, then parts of one. Death for my people had not been quick; the victims had not merely been slain. That was only the beginning. The murdered the maimed, the mutilated and massacred. Bodies hung from posts, were nailed to walls and were pinned to the ground by stakes. People lay flayed torn and burned, there was the sliced and gouged and half eaten. My people; my family. Limbs had been hacked off, heads removed, eyes gouged out, the list of barbarities were endless. Men women and children, no one had been spared. I found them in such an array of horrific tortures that it took some time to steel myself against its atrocities and search for any left living. Part of me had hoped not, anyone left alive would have been tortured into insanity, merely fit for mercy killing. As it was, none were left alive anyway.
I was taught many things by my people, but chief among them was the value of life. We scraped a living from the Lost Deserts. The Nadir were a people forever fighting the elements, surviving harsh conditions and the relentless heat. We forged strong bonds; had to if we wished to survive. Each person had worth and each person was responsible not only for their own safety, but the safety of those around them. The responsibility of life to those lower in the clan than yourself was absolutely paramount...
I found out later in life that it was not the same outside of our isolated community. The responsibility that comes with power... The world does not understand it, they see things backward."
Rogan struck out on his own to make a life as a mercenary, becoming a sell sword. He’d served in the scouting attachments for the rough tags of China for some time and enjoyed high standing among the soldiers and even officer class. But he would never compromise himself, never be put in a position where he could be ordered by those he did not respect. He had still seen little at that point of the World. It was the start of the days when Rogan would take control of his own life and destiny, a time when the man grew and found worthy causes to fight and worthy men and women to stand beside. The first of note being the battle against the Spiritual Beings. It was in this Village of Tragedy, Hungary that Rogan fought his first Hollow and Shinigami.
It was here that he first encountered that of the Spirit World and although he did not understand their ways or their powers, he did his best to make sense of things and overcome these powerful beings. Neither were allies to him, simply men and creatures in his way on his road to greatness. He learned that they both were simple beings; one had a sense of duty and the other of destruction. What he did not expect were their great power. Caught in between the twos conflict, he found himself fighting a loosing battle. If not for the Shinigami's quick thinking and amazing power, Rogan may of lost his life here on this day. However, with his steel blade and indomitable spirit, it was he who won this day; not the Hollow nor the Shinigami.
Rogan embraced his lost people’s ways, becoming the Nadir he was raised to be. Living as a nomad sell-sword he met with other adventurers and fell into the spirit of mercenary work. He trained with some of the best privateers available before hearing about work in the south lands. The people of the Great Jiangdong, China were being decimated, picked off slowly by unseen enemies. Entire families were being butchered and dragged screaming into the night. They needed a tracker of unparalleled skill to hunt their menace, and so Rogan answered the call. It was on this quest that Rogan would first began to hunt and kill Hollows or Shinigami on his own accord. The hunt was difficult, an event that proved to Rogan how much more he needed to learn when he saw a Shinigami at work. She, the Shinigami that he had begun tracking, fought on another level with a skill that was hypnotic, and it was a desire to match her fury in combat that saw an increase in his training.
After a hard battle in the snow where neither warrior would back down, Rogan nor the Shinigami ; the true enemy emerged. The Hollow creature attacked the pair, emerging from the blizzard in thick skin coated like armor. Putting aside their feud they killed and drove off the attack, finally agreeing to work together to unmask the real foe. Rogan and the female Shinigami tracked the Hollow back to a cave where the two warriors would come to a clash during the investigation more than once. Eventually they broke the mask of the Hollow. The female Shinigami consoled him in his victory, and though the pair had strayed perilously close to hating each other and had crossed blades many times during the contract, they parted in respect."My people are gone now, and I am the last. But I feel it is my duty to be the voice of my lost tribe. To recount our ways and achievements so that not all is forgotten. There was much that was worthy in us and I would not see my people lost to the fog of time.
A people strong in the arcane and powerful in spirit. Potent elementalist’s and strong in evocation, magic flowed with some force in our blood. It was the basis of respect within the community; those strongest with it able to challenge for leadership.
Of character, there had been a feral quality to my tribe. A roughness, an untamed barbarity that would not allow for notions of civility. The Lost Deserts of Europe are treacherous, they are hot and unforgiving, and they were our home. We were survivor’s first, hunters second and climbers last. Tough, dangerous and vicious when need be. But it had been offset with a surprising amount of reserve and restrained self awareness. It created a controlled and detached people struck through with moments of intense violence and animalistic brutality. Violent lives, ending violently. Noble Savages, one and all."Role Playing Sample:
2nd Character, I'm ShibataTim