Quelque chose d'autre l'a eue, hein? Les rôles se mêlaient, frottant l'arrière de son cou. Trois des chiens humains avaient également disparu quand il faisait sa course de collecte de cadavres, même s'il aurait été impossible pour les gens de ne pas remarquer que quelqu'un les traînait loin. Il n'a pas passé le temps à chercher des signes qui indiqueraient où ces mutants morts ont disparu, mais... c'était un chasseur, pas un détective ou quoi que ce soit. Entreposant ses pensées dans la partie du cerveau réservée à l'information superflue, la brune s'inclina devant les instructions du vieil homme.
"Don" ne prend pas froid et meurt," dit-il au sac d'os. Avec des pas vifs et retentissants, il sortit de l'Église de l'Absolu, retournant dans la ville triste et délabrée d'Iredele. La température avait chuté considérablement, mais c'était une petite pitié qu'aucun vent ne passât. Frost avait déjà commencé à se développer sur les fenêtres opaques de quelques maisons, et pourtant, la plupart des civils ont choisi de continuer leur routine comme s'il n'y avait rien eu. Ils ont tremblé et éternué, mais comme les marionnettes parfaitement désastreuses qu'ils étaient, ils ont suivi le script à un t.
Il a fait que les rôles veulent les tirer dans la tête et récolter leur sang pour l'usage dans un avenir proche... mais ce vieil homme était assez occupé comme il était. Il ne sert à rien de jeter plus de travail dans sa direction, après tout, même si Rotting Bone aurait à faire face à ces décès éventuellement.
Son long manteau noir enroulé autour de lui pour éviter les températures hivernales, Roless gritte ses dents pour les empêcher de bavarder comme un jackhammer, poussant son chemin dans l'atmosphère tiède de la Taverne du loup d'hiver. Peu regardèrent dans sa direction à son arrivée, trop immergé dans leurs boissons ou la barmaid, et ce n'était qu'un seul individu qui se distinguait dans cette foule sans vie.
Eh bien, deux individus.
Maribel, la petite fille flippante résidente, et un nouveau visage qui ressemblait en quelque sorte à un zombie.
Il était vraiment clair qui était le chasseur, mais, malgré cela, Roless ne pouvait vraiment pas supprimer l'envie de botter au moins un peu de merde. Prenant une profonde respiration, il appela à haute voix, les mains pressées sur les côtés de sa bouche, "Bon matin des sacs de viande! Lequel d'entre vous est un Hunter?C'est quoi, ça?
Rétrospectivement, il s'est rendu compte que le Hunter auquel le prêtre avait fait allusion était probablement une nouvelle arrivée, et qu'il devait probablement faire du baby-sitting pour les pauvres sodas.
Welp, probablement juste le paiement pour le sang du monstre.
Name: Roless
Gender: Male
Age: Somewhere around 16 to 19, but, like most of himself, he’s unsure.
Appearance: Roless stands at 5’11, with messy brown hair and vibrant amethyst eyes. His skin is of a light tan, and his hands, like the rest of his body, are full of small scars, barely noticeable nicks in his skin. It is most likely due to the nature of his Blood magic that such marks are present, but then again, who knows? He has a sturdy build despite his lankiness as a teenager, and his voice is cheerful, that positivity often accompanied by a sing-song tone. The Hunter carries himself in a lax manner, and prefers wearing long coats despite his habit of accidentally stepping on the ends of that coat.
His steps are announced with the clink of metal against metal.
Magic: Roless uses Blood Magic in a different way than most Hunters. It’s neither a boon to his allies nor a bane to his enemies. Instead, it is fuel in a world where oils are rare and gasoline rarer, a fuel that can be consumed by machines and humans alike. Mechanical weapons roar to life when filled with it, and firearms devoid of ammunition can fire once more, shooting out bullets of hardened blood. These bullets of magic-drenched blood are corrosive to the flesh of unholy monsters, not only penetrating, but also melting. A powerful counter to beings with regenerative capabilities, if enough bullets had been pumped into them.
But what goes around comes around, and Roless is also capable of purifying monster blood to an extent, injecting it into himself to give him the same bestial strength as the beings that he opposes. It’s a dangerous game to play, as the same rot that his blood bullets cause to monsters will start to ail him as well, but…it’s a fun game, isn’t it? He can generally recover from the negative effects of monster blood after half an hour, with the bestial strength lasting him ten minutes per injection. And thus, the ratio is this: each injection gives him 10 minutes of strength and thirty minutes of suffering, as his human blood poisons him. The more blood injected, the stronger he becomes, and the more he suffers.
If only Roless was a masochist.
Weapon: Roless carries three weapons with him, two of them being massive enough that it’s an easy testament to his strength.
The first is that is what Roless calls the Hammer. It is a single shot flintlock pistol, one modified to have a frame and barrel strong enough to withstand the recoil of massive bullets. A more accurate description of this would be that of a cannon, powerful enough to turn lesser beings into mush. Though it requires reloading after every shot, it has an extremely potent knockback, and Roless is skilled enough to reload it with one hand regardless. His favorite toy, really, and when combined with his blood magic, it becomes his single most destructive attack, capable of exploding after penetration.
The second is the Rain, an expensive, greedy hand-crank gatling gun with six barrels. Smaller than the mounted variations but still just as deadly, Roless holds it in one hand and cranks it in the other, allowing him to put out 10 rounds per second. As bullets for this particular weapon is rather expensive, he spends most of the monster blood that he harvests into creating bullets of blood for the Rain. Naturally, it wouldn’t have the same corrosive effect as using human blood, but hey, what monster would have time to be happy about that, when ten bullets jam itself into its body every second?
The third is the Harvest, a seven foot spear with a one foot long blade that can fold onto itself to be two feet long for easy travel. While the Hammer and Rain could be considered Roless’s main sources of damage, the Harvest is, put frankly, how he harvests blood to feed his toys. Unlike most spears that have a single blade fixed into the center of the shaft, the Harvest has two blades fixed at either side of a steel compartment placed at the end of the shaft. Top-heavy, and thus, more difficult to swing about until momentum is gained, its true value is seen when a hidden trigger is held at the machine roars to life and the blades spin wildly, turning into saws capable of shearing through flesh and causing grevious, bloody injuries to all those on the opposite end. Though some of that blood is then used to continue to feed the motor, the majority is stored, to be used as steroids or ammunition.
Personality: This Hunter is a happy oddity in the doom and gloom that is the Land of Wasted Dreams. It could be said that he loves his job from top to bottom, from the life-threatening situations that he fights himself out of, to the days spent in the hospital recovering from his injuries, to the times where he lost his mind after too many monster blood injections, to the amount of money he can pile up after a job well done. Roless, regardless of how frightening, disgusting, disturbing, revolting his work is, embraces it fully, with an innocent passion that revolves not around hatred towards the demonspawn lurking in the darkness, but around the thrill of the hunt.
He’s someone to be taken seriously even if his suggestions can become inane. Prone to hatching up nigh-suicidal plans, Roless, to the outsider, would appear to be a fool chasing after his death. But he’s not suicidal, nor has he given up. He’s simply…desperate for simulation. If he thinks too hard about his actions, he’ll start thinking about other things. So he won’t. Roless drowns himself in this image of a jester, relishing in violence, because if he’s not enjoying himself, what else would he be?
So he’ll smile away the shadows, until he forgets that he’s more monster than man now.
Bio: Roless was, like most Hunters, thrust into this broken, two-mooned world with no memories. He knew that he was in a hospital, and knew how weapons worked. He understood the value of money, and held enough knowledge that he could surmise that he was a learned man. But that was the extent of his knowledge, and his emptiness as a human being had shaped much of what Roless was to be. On an instinctual level, he understood that he would have nothing, even if he was to escape from this grimy world, and, on an emotional level, he loved it. He relished the freedoms available to him, and spared no time at all living in the present.
Yet, at night, dreams of peaches and plums, of strands of sunlight, of starlit eyes, those would haunt him with their gentleness.
Battles were the flames that gave him meaning.
But warmth was the poison that made his heart beat.
Other: It's quantity, not quality, that matters.