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Bolrock - Male -Dagger; Tainted Razor Rouge
Topic Started: Jan 16 2013, 05:06 PM (496 Views)
Inkdragon
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m e g s
Character Number- 4th (GoG slot)

Name- Bolrock Vage

Age- 26

Gender- Male

Sexuality- Bisexual

Appearance-

[align=center]Posted Image[/align]

Bolrock stands at six feet three inches, and his height shows fully for he is never one to slouch. Finely toned muscles add to this tall lad’s strength, as well to his natural air of intimidation. Brown skin and dull, blond hair that used to be short and curly is now hanging down in semi-long dreadlocks, as he had forgone cutting it in favor of not having anything sharp anywhere near his neck and face. Even with his six feet of length, by no means the tallest man in the world, Bolrock is still intimidating. His more sculpted facial features do nothing to help relieve the presence that Bolrock is, with how he holds himself and looks down on people like the insignificant worms they are (to him anyway). His eyes are also an interesting feature. Deep-set, they are interestingly bi-colored. One emerald green, and the other a harsh blue. Another mentionable feature of this young man are the scars that run down the left side of his face and neck. They area lightish brown against the dark of his skin, telling a chilling tale of a fight, or incident, of which he had nearly lost his life.

Another aspect of Bolrock is his armor. Almost always, he can be found in it. It took him years to get the full ensemble just right. He is always wearing the gauntlets, above all, if not with his leathers. Perhaps he is hiding something, like more scars, or even perhaps because he prefers it that way because he thinks it adds to his overall intimidation. Or he just likes it, as his environment is less than predictable. On the shoulder parts of his armor, his own made up symbol that makes sense to only him is inscribed. Bolrock tends to lean towards black and grays for clothing, when it can seen, and his gauntlets and leggings a dull silver. He uses a thick strand of dark navy cloth on his forehead, as it once held back annoying curls but is now there out of habit. Another attribute to his appearance is his sword. Much like his gauntlets, he is hardly ever, ever seen without it. Whether in his hands to threaten someone or in it's scabbard, it will take brute force to take it off his person.


Personality-

If Bolrock's appearance doesn't catch your attention, maybe his personality will. And there's just something about the way he manipulates his deeper tone of voice that he is forever mocking and degrading the person he is talking to, even if he is giving a compliment (if. that were to ever happen). Despite the flash of anger that ignites often in his eyes due to irritation, Bolrock is actually rather patient. Whether waiting to strike at the right moment or for someone to stop talking at him, he bides his time and thinks. He likes to plot, to plan. While he can act rashly at times, he is the type to have some kind of plan instead of wandering blindly. He's secretive of those plans, often manipulating forces around him so that things go as he wants them to. He's a rather guarded fellow, hardly ever telling of his true emotions and thoughts, even if poked and prodded by what manages to pass by as a friend for him. Bolrock doesn't like giving things away or making it easier on others to read what is going on through his head.

But then again, perhaps it's for the good of all that no one knows. He could be smiling at you and you wouldn't know he was actually picturing feeding you to Blair (his girl). He's rather sour and cheerless, looking bored and distant most the time. He seems to find great enjoyment and humor in just seeing how the twins react to different people and situations, and yet, hates it when they do something stupid enough he has to step in and save their sorry butts. Bolrock has a gift for stating the very obvious in such a bored tone, that it's left up in the air whether or not he really does care about that monster that is slithering toward him. At least he in confident in himself and his abilities, but he seems to think everyone else is stupid. Aside from his Trio members, the twins, of course. He looks out for them, and they are the only ones that, beside himself, he seems to actually care about. Only for them will her share a smile, a laugh, and a deeper look into his personality.

For Bolrock, it's always a 'what's in it for me?' kind of deal. If the reward isn't great enough, he's probably not going to go for the challenge. Bolrock really is the kind of fellow you have to see to believe, for he has so much personality it really is quite had to tack it all on him. This talk-back, rough-tough, no nonsense, distrustful and adventurous young man isn't one you want to have on your bad side. He likes feeding things, or people, that annoy him to Blair. He'll kill once in a while for pleasure, or if the person/creature has really annoyed him, but if there's a good price on their heads Bolrock is all for it, no matter who the person is.

Rank- Dagger, Mercenary

History- Born in the north Vein area, Bolrock was constantly surrounded by a large family of blacksmiths and miners. Their life was a scrubby one, and someone always seemed to be dying from sickness or what his extended family called 'black lung' from breathing in toxins. Bolrock was given momentous tasks far sooner than was actually 'fair', and was expected to follow through with his father's dream for him, which was to craft much sought-after armor that even great dragonriders bought from him. His father was relentless, abusing, and forever degrading to the young Bolrock. The kid would have left the moment he could, but one thing kept him there amongst the chaos—his mother. Handicapped mentally, Saundray was the sweetest person in the world. She was forever forgiving, kind, and cherished every rare drop of sunlight in the dark shadow that was their family. She couldn't tell a sword from a pickaxe, but she could tell a bad soul from a good one. She could bring someone out of suicidal depression with just her smile. She was sought after for advice and counsel, even if she couldn't string full sentences together, or really understand what was being said to her. Saundray was the only person who did not feel the rough hand of Harlen, her husband. She was his one treasure. Young Bolrock would watch, confused, as Harlen treated his mother like one would a queen of all things precious, then turn on him and his kin with with rapid ferocity. But he took the abuse because, at the end of the long, harsh day, she would hold him and say, “Bolrock, I love you.” And she would patch him up, and ask if he had tripped or burned himself again? And he would say...”Yes, I did.” Then she'd smile, call him her clumsy boy, and make his owies all better.

But everyone has their breaking point. The day came where Bolrock stood up against his father, defended himself, fought back. However, it was also the day the Tainted dragons came. They numbered three, but it was enough for total devastation. He watched, while hiding his mother away in a tunnel, as one of the dragons tore Harlen apart. And he smiled. A fierce fire of joy burned deeply within him. He was able to hide with Saundray as the rest of their family was wiped out or fled. What had been a harsh, yet liveable place, was flattened in all but less than half a candle mark. They wandered out into the burning and bloody aftermath, and Saundray tore away from him to see the remains of her husband. Bolrock watched, amazed, as a smile blossomed on her lips. “Finally,” she said. The word was without the cloudy, dreamy texture she usually spoke with, and she turned to her son with her head raised high. But the moment of sanity faded, and she lapsed into a quiet, secluded shell. Confused and utterly disoriented, Bolrock packed what provisions was left, and they began their journey to Nyushi. Coming upon Outer Lihn, he was able to get them a tent that barely fit the two of them. He scrapped by a living, ironically, with the skills his father had passed—or beaten—into him. While he assisted a master smith, he started to make some durable, but yet, lighter-weight armor on the side for himself. He felt so exposed all the time; it was like an itch he could not scratch. One night, when he came 'home', Saundray spoke for the first time since they had come to live there. She spoke urgently, and told him to listen, pay attention, and learn. From under her grimy, flattened pillow and patched blanket she pulled out a battered wooden box. For many nights after, she'd show him how to use the contents in the vials she withdrew to mix them together to create poisons, and potions alike. She'd drill him constantly until he could all but recite them out loud in his sleep.

She was very insistent he learned how to fight better. So he did, following the instructions of a man that supposedly knew her and owed her a favor. Bolrock's confusion grew ever more as the mystery surrounding his mother thickened. But he did not question her. He did as he was told. He was surprised when the smith allowed him proper time to make his own sword. Saundray continued to lapse back into her old self, but when she would 'snap back', she would continue to instruct him in things he had no idea why he should know. She would often disappear for days on end, only to come back and sit in the corner of the tent, eyes distant, thoughtful. Again, Bolrock did not question her. He had tried to, at one point, but the warning in her eyes had been so deadly he shut his mouth with an audible snap. Yes, his mother was utterly crazy. But he still loved her. He didn't notice, but he was an odd ball himself. People would part for him, keep him at a distance, address him with their eyes to the ground. They'd look at him strangely when he spoke. The only one who didn't seem to care was the smith. “You keep working like you are, and I wouldn't care if you were an assassin,” he once chuckled. It was meant as a joke, but it had struck Bolrock. Hard. It suddenly clicked—his mother was training him to kill someone. That night in the tent, as he and his mother ate bread that had been by the fire far too long, he looked up at her. “So, who will Bolrock be killing?” She jerked her head up, and grinned. “Finally,” she said, and he was reminded of how she had stood over the remains of her departed husband and said that very thing.

Life got far more interesting after that night. She gave him his first target; a wealthy merchant who passed through the city of tents, flaunting his goods, wares and wealth and laughing madly at the wanting eyes and pleading cries. Bolrock decided this must be a test more than an actual target, for he always had a scattering of guards. He watched and studied from afar. Here he learned patience, and to pick out details. Like how the merchant would only accept food and drink from one specific guard. A night of stalking and more patience, Bolrock used the first of his virtually tasteless poisons to spike the merchant's alcohol. Next day, the news spread within the tent community about the man's death. His mother was pleased, and the true work began. The money started to roll in, life started to get better. They upgraded to a small apartment-like building, still in the shabby part of town, but it was better than a tent. Bolrock's days were filled with his job with the smith, and his nights were mostly occupied with constant lessons with his mother or taking out a mark she would give him. All quietly done, all without question. He picked up more and more grim jobs. He became more and more like his mother, minus the drifts into mind-fluff land.

However, one night, she put a sleeping drought in his drink. When he woke, two names had been carved on the top of his wrists with a knife; Blair, and Bryn. One on each wrist. And his mother was gone. He never saw her again. No note to explain where she had gone, no questions answered, no nothing. Just the two names. Struggling to keep himself together before his own confusion and sense of abandonment could tear him to pieces, all he could do was continue on. His existence became rather mundane until one particular late evening. Having stayed in the shop one night to try and complete his armor, he noticed the window to his small living space was partly open. He kept it locked, and shut, at all times. He caught not one, but two thieves in the progress of looting what was left of his assassination-earned money. He would have killed them right then and there, but a few things stopped him. One, their attempts to rob him were actually quite amusing. Two, they were younger than him, still just kids. Three...he had heard one of them call the other Blair in a hiss of warning. He demanded their names, and indeed confirmed that these two, twins actually, were called Blair and Bryn. Having long since covered up his wrists with strips of cloth—and soon gauntlets—he didn't need to double check to make sure. The names were as engraved in his mind as they were on his wrists. Hey let them go without harm, even rewarded their thieving efforts by letting them keep a fair share of the money. He was glad when Bryn offered friendship; otherwise, he would have just stalked the twins until he could figure out what they had to do with his mother. This way, he was close.

Bolrock had never had an actual friend before. With the twins, he had two. They interested him, and amused him. He learned further patience with them as, at first, their thievery techniques were sloppy in comparison to his own. But they learned from him, and he from them. They became his family, albeit twisted. Not once did he mention his mother, not even when asked. All he spared for their curious consumption was his multitasking occupations. He was waiting for something, a sign of recognition from the twins. Maybe, if they had seen Saundray, they would recognize his face, for his was much like hers. But it never happened, and Bolrock continued to patiently peck away at the ever-growing mystery. In the meantime, the trio became quite the force to be reckoned with, and Bolrock found some satisfaction with his life, at long last. He still worked with the smith, still sought out information, but continued to run into dead ends. Anyone he had known to interact with his mother previously were suddenly gone, or denied a Saundray Vage had ever existed. It was frustrating, and always, questions would trickle through his mind. What was the deal? Who, really, was the one he had called 'mother' all his life?

As he became involved in the twins' life, it was soon he learned of their abusive father. Of course, this struck a cord with him, both as a reminder of his own father but, perhaps as a further clue as to why his mother had engraved the twins' names on him. Was he meant to kill that bastard, to end their suffering by his hands? The opportunity came sooner than he thought, and before he could do the deed personally. Bryn approached him with his intentions, and Bolrock provided the poison that brought a painful end to the man's life, though they never told, or ever would tell, Blair what they had done. Though the deed was done, Bolrock sensed that though this was a part of what his mother had wanted him to do, it wasn't all of it. It hit him, quite suddenly, how he felt like a puppet. Saundray had the strings, twitching away at them from wherever she was. The love he had for her and the sudden anger at her battled so badly that Bolrock thought he'd finally snap. But Blair and Bryn, quite unknowingly, saved him from himself by presenting what hit him as a very startlingly, stupid plan.

They wanted to enroll at the Academy. Though he kept his face straight, he was laughing hysterically inwardly. He had never given all that much thought to the war going on between the factions, aside from what affected him personally. Besides, the war was over. He just couldn't see the Academy accepting such twisted, young soles. But seeing how much it delighted Blair, he didn't utter a word of protest. He collected his unfinished armor garb, his money, the bare necessities, and followed the twins. He was too attached to them now just to let them go on without him. He felt they needed him, for protection. Not that they couldn't take care of themselves, but it felt good to have more of a purpose in his life. They were accepted into the Academy, surprisingly enough. For their sake, Bolrock played the part of a decent human being as best he could. Though, when the bullying started on the twins, it didn't take long for Bolrock to slip back into his sneaky ways and leave hints and threats until the bullying eased little by little. A few stabbings he would have preferred, but...

Come time of their first hatching, Bolrock was unfazed when he was not given a crystal; but it did irritate him to see that the twins did not, either. It happened again, and again, until they declared their next plan. Perhaps it had been his dry comment about Tainted hatchlings taking more of a liking to them, but still, it was amusing how badly the twins seemed to want a dragon. It became more personal, however, as Blair began to cry about failing to bond at the Academy. He comforted her the best he knew how, really—he said he was sure there was a twisted, evil, thrill-seeking tainted hatchling just waiting for her out there that would fit her better. At the time it hadn't been the right thing to say, but hey, he had tried. The very morning they set out to leave, he found a note that had been slipped under his door. The script he recognized right away; it was from his mother. But the note was far from satisfying. It did nothing but heighten his confusion, irritation, and bewilderment that was the fog that surrounded his mother, and his life. It said, ”Finally.”

Bolrock tried to put it out of his head, but it became hauntingly clear that, for some reason, Saundray was tugging him along to some fate she desired of him. And it seemed he wasn't going to get out of it easily. Again, he said nothing of all this to the twins. He didn't feel they needed to know, and really, he wasn't ready to. It made no sense. So onward they went, and were excepted as candidates (though almost eaten) by a Tainted dragon. Their new life began to change the trio...but Bolrock liked it. This darker side was comforting, and to be honest, seeing the twins turn into nearly inhumane beings was the most amusing thing yet in his life. But perhaps the most of all was bonding to the small razor Rouge of delicate build and ferocious personality. He and the twins overcame much during their time as wyrmlings, and along the way, Bolrock discovered Saundray's true purposes. She had been involved in the slave trade before his birth, but her husband had drugged her, and drug her, far from that life. The bastard of a man had actually saved Bolrock's life, but once Saundray realized the horror it would be for her to return empty handed to those she owed, engraving the twin's names on his hands would be a giveaway for the slave trades she had decided to try and set after him that there were two others of interest for them.

Just after graduating as a wyrmling and moving in to an actual home, Bolrock was made aware by his traveling uncle that he had a brother Saundray had given up as a slave before Bolrock's birth. In a fit of fury, Bolrock and the twins stormed into Lihn where Yorek was being kept, and all but stole him away from his life as a slave, offering him a more broad one. It was one of the best things Bolrock had ever done, as with a brother, he found another meaningful relationship and kinship that couldn't quite be replicated with the twins. Bolrock, still holding the secret of the twin's names engraved on his hands, debates his next move. But in his mind, he knew he could not ever see her again, least he killed her for her actions against him, and his family.


[align=center]The Dragon
Posted Image[/align]

Name- Rouge

Age- 6

Gender- Female

Element- Razor

Personality- Hyper, Tactile, Possessive

From hatchling to adult, Rouge has remained as hyper as ever. Anything that tickles her fancy delights her, like shiny things, making sure Bolrock keeps his armor shined up, shiny stones, sparkly dragon hides, anything that gleams, shines, or sparkles holds her interest. When she's in a good mood, anyone in the vicinity will know. From singing, to pouncing and flying (or running) in rapid circles, this razor just can't hold in her emotions. It's literally impossible for her. That being said, when she feels angry or irritated at someone or something, they will know right away. She has to let it all out right there and then, because bottling things up just doesn't suit her. If her dragon allies piss her off, she's all over them until the fit is over or she finds it useless to hold the grudge, because she'd rather be happy then ticked off all the time. Though she has grown, Rouge still seems to be nothing but a (albeit deadly) cat for the way she acts and rubs up against her dragon friends.

Steel or not, Rouge has a strong perception of touch. From the way the earth feels on her paws or the wind rushing around her wings in the sky, it's her gift of the night. Much like with a cat's whiskers, Rouge's many bristles stand on end to add to this sense, to tell her how close she is to something once the bristles brush against it if she doesn't see it at first. She loves to be petted (very carefully) by her Bolrock, and rubbing catlike up against her dragon friends is just her touchy way of being loving and friendly, because she'd rather feel something than not. That being said, it took a lot of learning as she grew to figure out what was indeed stupid to be touching, like things that are too hot, cold, sharp, what have you. Even now Rouge likes to learn more about something from more than just seeing, hearing and smelling.

Aside from her disability to hide emotions, being hyper and sneaky, and playful, another distinguishing attribute of this razor is her very possessive nature. Once upon a time she couldn't even stand Byrn and Blair so much as touching her Bolrock, but she has since accepted them. However, she lets it be known Bolrock is hers. So is her growing collection of shiny, gleaming items. There was also a time when she was so possessive of the Bulkhead Krakatoa that the future idea of him flying anyone but her was unbearable. But as she matured so did that, and instead of being completely obsessive of him, she obsesses over his happiness. Overall, Rouge is quite the interesting dragon to meet. Life is full of wonders, and she's going to see them all. But don't let her joyous attitude sway you. She doesn't mind pouncing for the kill, or testing her deadly weapon of a tail on the unsuspecting that irritate her.

Not to mention, she adores the color red, as in, blood red.

Appearance-

Rouge is, pretty much, a simple looking dragon for the most part. There is nothing spectacular about her coloring, because she's all one color--white. From head to toe, from spike to claw, this girl does not boast any other color, except for her eyes. Those eyes make up the difference, and stick out even more against her white. They are an impressive red, a gleaming ruby, brimming with whatever emotion she's feeling. They are decently big, and a nice almond shape set in a way that seems to easily help identify her gender. Rouge's colorless steel has a faint shine to it, with a canny ability to reflect sunlight and make her a true blur if she wishes to be in her swifter movements. Her many spikes are, of course, white as well, most of them thin and delicate but not at all less deadly. A casual brush just against one of them could mean a nasty gauge. Their coloring makes them hard to see unless they are sticking up straight, which happens when Rouge gets startled or becomes angry, or even very excited. Which, for her, isn't uncommon.

Everything about her is small and delicate. From her sharp wedge-like shaped head to her just as sharp razor wings, she is built for swiftness and can be deadly silent. As a hatchling she wasn't much bigger than a common house cat, and had major issues with her size because of her rider looking like he'd need something more, well, powerful. It took some time for her to get over it, and when she could successfully carry her rider, she found he appreciated her smaller stature. He could sneak about the night much easier than he could on a dragon such as, say, Bulkhead Krakatoa. Roll Rouge in a good bit of mud and she is a lithe weapon of the night. Being the albino type she is, Rouge has issues in full sunlight and works so much better in dimmer light. For days she can't avoid the sun, a special cloth covers her eyes, protecting them from the harsh light, but also depriving her of full sight. A pink-red, heart-shaped crystal sits on her chest, cracked, like a broken heart. She doesn't blame Bolrock for not having his out in sight.

Posted Image

Hatching Post (by Semp)-
Quote:
 

One by one the eggs vomited their twisted contents out into the world. Tiles shook and cracks widened at the ministrations of their unruly guests with surmounting force. Excited hatchlings scrabbled, skittered, and dragged their way from their nests to their other halves, though with varying levels of proficiency, hallmarked by the strange gait of Nimue's limbless backside. Style and punctuality had never quite the adjective to describe newborns, but they perfected the art of making their own turns on the red carpet of attention as memorable as the last. Each hatchling stirred on the next in a domino effect of flailing limbs and flying egg slime. As quickly as the event had begun the next bout of eggs eagerly twisted in their nests.

The offspring of the Sheathe and his equally cunning mate was not one to idly sit by. True to the heritage of its esteemed parents the child began to stir and work towards claiming its moment of unbridled glory after its boisterous sibling all but turned their nest into a crater. It had been pampered adoringly and polished past the point of necessity at the hands of its father. The shining egg rocked with increasing fervent in the aftermath of Krakatoa's boisterous entrance, spilling bright flashes of sunlight upon the earth as its reflective surface beamed with warmth. Pips of eggshell broke the spiked surface while its occupant assailed the inner membranes and layers of calcium. Egg slime dribbled down its sides in gelatinous streams. The silver shell stilled for one final moment before peeling open at the pressure of it's occupant's vicious armor. Gleaming wings of sheeted metal split the calcium shell cleanly apart, but before the spectators had a solid moment to get a proper look at the hatchling it zipped away with nothing but the clatter of tiny talons scrambling across the stone left in its wake.

Steel as colorless and pristine as unmarred snow coated the hatchling in armor like liquid metal. As it moved the light rebounded like a mirror, leaving little more than a quick flash of bright sun before it deftly flung itself into the air as effortless as a bloodthirsty flea. Joints flicked and wingtips clipped the feeble air like greased lightning, propelling her along on her merry way as easily as a dragonfly along the surface of a rippled current. Her little feet, though measurably more pronounced than her mother's, were tiny, perfectly suited to catapult her lithe frame around the heads of the gathered candidates. She giggled with pure delight at the shrieks she gleaned from the ducking candidates, soaking in the attention with all the credit she was due. Their attention belonged to her, but none more so than the dark-skinned lad that stuck out like a sore thumb beside the enormous Bulkhead that had recently bonded to his companion. Poor lad, she liked the thought of him not knowing exactly what was about to become of him. The dragonet bounced off of Krakatoa's horns with a scarcely witheld cackle.

In a heartbeat the little white hatchling perched upon the young man's shoulders and began to pick at his clothing with her scalpel-sharp claws. She winced at having torn the cloth, but it was a meager price to pay to get as daringly close to the candidate's face. Startlingly massive ruby eyes widened further while she stared excitedly into his gaze. The expression made her appear innocent, but as she began to grin, revealing pointed needle teeth, it became clear that that was hardly the case.

"Hello, hello, hellooooo," she greeted gaily in rapid-fire succession. Her tiny body bounced with the force of her spouted words, exaggerated further by the ample bounty of glittering needles down the length of her spine. "You are mine! All mine. The finest treasure in all the land just for me and me alone! What is your name o' rider of mine? Oh, and you may call me Rouge," she added with a throaty purr. The word oozed as soft as viscous honey from her dainty mouth. The Razor hatchling batted her wings playfully at Bolrock's ear and continued to pick at his chest armor with a starry-eyed expression. "I like this! I think. The craftsmanship is nice, but you need to polish this better. It's hideous."
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Razor Egg
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Rouge
Female
(Razor Guillotine x Razor Viscer)
Hyper, Tactile, Possessive
Bolrock, 18, male (Megs)
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Balu
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Perpetually sketching
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