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About ThatTromboneGuy

  • Birthday February 13

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    Right. Behind you.
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Character Profile

  • Character Name
    Silas Astasel, Fenn'Diraar, Vex
  • Character Race
    Something or Other

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  1. Ooga Booga warclaim plugin bad

  2. Sitting deep within his study and looking upon a letter that had just been granted to him, a certain mage's face darkens. He scanned each stroke of ink pledged across its page, searching for whatever falsehood would lie beneath...if only he looked closer, there might be a flaw, an illusion. But alas, there naught to be hidden; Somehow - he thought - This was the work of desire. That of his own, that of his kinsmen...the curse that so fervently plagued his own kind. All was of little concern now, as his face was cowled in the hearth's absence, the clutch of cold despair taking hold in his very core... A flame had been snuffed.
  3. Gazing upon the flame that so fervently wrecked the city, Silas speaks aloud "We'll come down with the city if we do ne evacuate! Gather any survivors and get out!" His speech is interrupted repeatedly with coughs as his lungs are invaded by smoke, his connection entirely inaccessible as a side-effect
  4. In a blur of color, the man’s quick thinking took hold. He snapped once more as ripples of reality bent around him, manifesting a lengthy spear upon his palm! Lucky he, having an invisible tool bag of solutions. In an instant, the mage sunk the base of the shaft into the inch of mud that lie below their feet, the top end of the spear catching a body upon its cross guard as a macabre umbrella! As the bodies continuously piled up around him, he clung hard unto the spear and slowly worked his way up using it as a handle! Eventually, he reached open air, leaving the spear and calling out “I am alright! Focus on the accursed wretch!” He did not look alright, in actuality. Streaks of mud and hellish crimson stained his face, though it was not his own. Sweat slithered across the rivets of his own face like deltas of exhaustion. His own aura flickered only barely back to life.
  5. Silas began speaking as he charged, calling unto the Olog @alexdraganoid “None ordinary, friend! I speak only under tutelage of Skaatchnak and Qudlia themselves!” Hopefully the citation of his olden tutors would help to clear that stigma which surrounded himself, but the matter of thought was cut short by sight of that accursed arm. His eyes glinted for but a moment as memory swirled within his mind, before he continued out and down the steps. As he arrived to the ghastly scene of Eliza and the two accompanying ghouls, he approached posterior and settled near her side. His steps were somehow silent, but a single snap and the FWOOSH of flame announced him, as the void wrought its providence upon his palm. The spellblade readied himself.
  6. As the olog @alexdraganoid showed the ever-looming signs of bloodlust coming on, the man had to think fast. He was but a magi, nowhere NEAR the strength of such a lumbering, turbulent figure. His gaze traced with a hateful glance to Xerxes as he was thrust from the body he inhabited, before eliciting a thin sign of cognition. He pointed then to that ectoplasmic being, remarking aloud “YOU!! Retchid deceiver of Kor’s might! Begone from this realm, lest you incur the very wrath of the ancestral!” At mention of the orcish spirits, he turns once more to the Olog before remarking “Klomp da zpirit.” In sub-par, although still recognizable, blah.
  7. The familiar figure of Silas would call out and across that court toward William as his sword flew through the air to allow Eliza weaponry. "Do not believe the slander of a phantom, boy! I know not what it plays before you, but conjurations of the ghastly are naught but fallacies!" @titanicbomber
  8. Silas looks upon that armor that so commanded him, offering naught but disdain upon the interaction. At its utterance, he muses simply “You hold no power over me, fiend. Begone from my front, lest you incur the same wrath your comrades have so graciously conceded from.” The blue mists upon that circled him streamed about his free hand before taking shape in the form of a slayersteel shortsword. To this, he called out “Eliza.” With some cooled solemnity, before tossing it to her.
  9. Eventually, the man localized the heat conjured forth by his hand into his thumb, itself beginning to gleam lightly before pressing against the end of the animal waxen stick. Once the top layer was melted, he dabbed it upon the feather stems and stuck them along the necklace accordingly. He then pressed his hand upon her neck over that created focal lace, and imbued it with a blue force that soon faded. Slowly, the small wound upon her chest began to distort, a slightly different shade of skin bubbling into reality within it and knitting to her existing flesh. As such finished, he offered a smile to her in return. ”Of course. Now...it looks like there is more to attend to.”
  10. The stalwart elf offers a nod to William as he charges past, the true reality of the boy growing up clicking in that moment. Or perhaps...it was the click of the necklace latch as he secured it around Eliza’s neck once more. Once the ward from the ephemeral was in place and no longer burned the phantasmal essence within, he wisps unto the woman: “It is good to have you back, Madame Raven.” Quickly, he began to withdraw a few items from a thin oilskin in his suit. A bone vertebrae segment from a lesser animal spine, a string of plant fiber twine, a non-homogenous wax adhesive, and a few larger feathers of predatory birds. Immediately, he set to work stringing the bone vertebrae with the cordage and tying it around her neck as well. It was tighter than the other necklace, mostly form fitting to her neck like something of tribal origin. As his aura continued to pour from his palm, it slowly shifted to hold a warmth...
  11. “I know they wouldn’t.” - Marked the cadence of a man longing in mental affliction, yet he looked ever-onward for the woman’s decision. As the blade turned in her palm and death chose her coil to attempt, so too did he choose to finish his showing of arcane intervention. In a flash, he condensed into a thin stream of mana and apparated gently at her side. This display did not show the ferocity he so vehemently wielded beforehand, instead exemplifying the definition of ethereal, elven grace as a prudent touch of his hand aimed to take her own and the dagger’s hilt in one swoop. In effort, he would seek to guide Eliza’s arm and the dagger sideways away from herself until she might drop it. His voice rang soft and hushed, yet carried the same weight as his bittersweet tone always did. “I promised your protection, Eliza. You may ostracize me for my faults, you may tear the dignity from my name...but you will not make a liar of me.”
  12. @gurlpirate As the woman backed, Silas’s own voice began once further, emblazoned now in a gilded, priestly vocation. He stepped one further pace, gazing just past her, to which a visible distortion in reality sought to warble at her posterior as he spoke each word. “Then hate me. Despise me. This is your chance to strike me down; I bid you do it.” His hand slipped onto his own chest, fingers seeking their way under his suit to touch something that lies there. With each footfall, a renewed pulse of mana echoed gently from his form. His free hand lie outstretched toward his side, seemingly welcoming her blade should she choose.
  13. Silas did indeed follow one of those few surviving grit-and-bind beings of conjure, his capacious countenance dreading along as if he were but a husk of a man. But within that unhallowed dark that was he, one could see light sparked anew. One of determination. One of hope. A mere moment after the metalwork machination clattered through the large palace doors in search of its mastermind, so too did the mage. Though with an unfortunate truth was he met, gazing upon Nathaniel’s decadent arrogance as he was seated upon the throne that once belonged to his olden compatriot William. More pertinent, perhaps, was the absence of Eliza. A fate in which serendipity once more corrected, as he soon realized he was outnumbered and turned to run...only to crash directly into his intended. In a mixture of flabbergast and pain, he slowly groaned to a stand. Nothing short of a blade could stop him from embracing that woman, and yet it was a blade that separated them. Extended from her palm came the lustrous sheen of a pristine ferrum blade, mere inches from his chest. In that moment, he gazed upon the gate he so often assumed would catch up with him. That was it. His reckoning, held at the tip of an olden lover’s deluded whim. He eases out word by word a sentence which could only be described as a penitent acceptance. “What, then? Strike me. Do it. I deserve it, do I not?” His hand began to tremble in an odd fashion, ligaments flexing and fingers popping in some darkened mixture of emotion.
  14. A familiar voice...Silas calls from somewhere above "RUN, Eliza!" His voice is accompanied by naught but the cataclysmic clashing of armor, and rhythmic explosions through the ceiling.
  15. The man's eyes widen as he hears the phantasmal abomination's voice and the approaching thunder of plate. Being beside the window and witnessing that vehement volley come along the street, the individual grasps the necklace and dagger, charging up the stairs and sheathing the latter. That slick blue hue pulsated brightly from his form as he did so, himself snapping as a brilliant flame spiraled into fruition upon his palm. Upstairs, he waited at the opposite end of the hall from the top of the stairs, simply biding his time; Channeling. The blast in his palm elongated into a snaking line that shrieked up along his forearm, sucking in the air around it as he awaited those beings to come into a line for him. The clanking of armor did inevitably follow up the stairs, and his grin waxed. As they grew close, and in one fluid movement, the man's eyes surged to life with power. He launched forth that blast's explosive trail, weaving through the middle of the group and employing several explosions of infernal culmination. Whether or not his spell struck massively true, he let loose a heavy breath and charged left into a room. Guerilla tactics seemed to be his key to survival, at least in this instance.
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