* RAGNAROK Cast Thread

Prottigrnari

Race: Frost Giant

Description: Prottigrnari is a massive barbarian warrior, looming a full 9' above his foes, and likely weighing 800+ pounds. His skin is a light blue, and his long braided hair is as white as a newly fallen snow. He has a long beard that hangs down to his chest, intricately braided and interwoven with golden idols. He has a pair of beady, black eyes, cold and dark as the icy plane from where he hails.

Prottigrnari is fond of wielding a massive two-handed axe into battle. He wears nothing more than a collection of stitched-together animal pelts, but his thick skin is armor enough. It is not impenetrable, however, as evidenced by a wicked puckered scar that runs roughly 2 feet across his stomach. He prefers to keep this covered, as it is his secret shame.

Personality: Prottigrnari is a mean-spirited, evil frost giant, and that is not unusual among his kind. He is prone to bullying lesser allies, and is a fury in battle, not giving any quarter to any enemy. Sometimes, in a fit of battle-rage, he will even kill his allies, just so he can slake his thirst for blood and carnage.

Equipment: As noted above, Prottigrnari has little more than animal-skin clothing and a huge two-handed axe named Hjalmstallrklofna, an enchanted weapon crafted out of magical, never-melting ice. He does have a fondness for bears, for one reason or another, and has been spotted alongside a few of these ursine companions.

Skills: Has a keen sense of smell, especially when blood is in the air. An affinity for bears. Tough Skin, Supernatural Strength, Some Ice/Cold Magic. His skill with Hjalmstallrklofna is legendary in Jotunheim. His fighting style is direct and without grace, but many a foe have been cloven in half by his enchanted axe.

History: Prottigrnari was born in Jotunheim, to two proud frost giant parents. He was raised up in this vicious land, learning to take care of himself rather quickly. He always enjoyed to roam the wilderness, and developed a deep love and understanding for the bears of the frozen tundras.

Upon reaching adulthood, he proved himself a ferocious opponent in combat, both with axe and in physical matches. Many a cocky frost giant found himself pinned in feasthall wrestling matches by the powerful Prottigrnari.

Prottigrnari, like any mighty warrior, has been defeated before, and learned a valuable lesson from it. When on a trek through the wilderness once, he came across a small encampment. Smiling to himself, he thought that the camp would be easy pickings. He was hungry, and he hadn't killed anything in a long time.

The frost giant was surprised to find that the camp was inhabited by a mighty barbarian warrior, who was resting after a long journey. In the ensuing fight, Prottigrnari was driven off after the human warrior dealt a serious wound with his battleaxe. To this day, Prottigrnari hides the wound from view, and if anyone ever brings it up in conversation, he lashes out in fury.

*edited to clarify a few things*

Class – Minion of Loki
Name - Ormstunga
Appearance - 5’8” if he could stand straight, but he is permanently hunched over so about 5’2”. His skin is the color of ash and he is completely hairless. His eyes are slits and the color is solid silver-gray, no irises or pupils. His small ears sit close to his head. His skin is as smooth as a baby’s. He is very thin though he does not appear emaciated. None of this is usually visible though as he tends to be swathed in a tremendous grey cloak with a hood that obscures his features.
Alignment - EVIL This is not one to be trusted. He looks out only for his own interests and those of Loki. He won't hesitate to stab you in the back, poison you, or better yet cook up some nice illusion that has you off yourself in same nastily painful way. Less exertion.
Equipment - The only thing he usually carries with him at all times other than his cloak is the dagger Brundabitr (Heart-Biter). The enchanted weapon looks like it is made entirely of obsidian. The thin blade is ten inches long and sharper than sin. His constant companion is a mangy wolf/husky mix called simply Gagarr (Barker).
Skills:
Combat – As a hand-to-hand combatant he’s not very strong but he’s wicked with his dagger. He prefers to use magic or trickery when he can.
Magic - His spells are mostly limited to those that fool the eye. Though, not himself a shapeshifter, he will often use his magic to change appearance or mask his presence. As a follower of the god of fire though his bag of tricks does include an explosive surprise or two.
Astrology – The stars hold many secrets of the future and he is able to prise some of them loose. Beware his predictions, as both he and the Norns are capricious.
Herbalism
History – In his travels he wound up crossing the path of Druids in the Isles. He was able to study with them for some time and add their knowledge to his own. He made the grave mistake of crossing one of these wise men and wound up in a prison of wicker. Burned alive he found his appearance changed to ever reflect his dishonorable end. He haunted the halls of Hel and waited to do his master Loki’s bidding. He has recently been recruited from the chill depths by a being even he knows not the identity of.

NAME: Gunnar Arvidson, Human, convicted felon and lead singer of the heavy metal band Wynternacht

DESCRIPTION: Hitler's wet dream. Long blond hair in several braids flowing down over his shoulders, and piercing blue eyes. A closely trimmed beard and mustache only slightly darker than his hair. He's a slab of a man, and his arms are covered in tattoos of runes and warriors with swords.

PERSONALITY: Charismatic as all hell onstage, Gunnar tends to be a bit of a bully off it. His numerous convictions are mostly for drunken post-concert brawls, although he does have a manslaughter conviction, the result of one such brawl that turned deadly. He's tight with the other members of the band, likening them to "a Viking raiding party, storming the shores of rock and roll."

ALIGNMENT: Neutral/selfish, although he'll go to the mat for his bandmates.

EQUIPMENT: A big bank account -- Wynternacht is a modest hit in his native United States, but just monstrous in Europe. He's not the Stones, but he's doing okay. Gunnar also always carries a custom-made Gil Hibben knife, which he calls Fenris; it's an ornate double-bladed knife, the blades crafted as the upper and lower jaws of a wolf, and was a gift to him from an American fan of the band.

SKILLS: He's a hell of a singer, with a deep, growling voice that makes Rammstein sound like Tiny Tim. He's also a great brawler, the kind of guy who could pick up anything in a bar and hold his own with it.

HISTORY: A metal-head during school, he was constantly getting into trouble trying to live the heavy metal lifestyle. When he realized he could make some money at it as well, he formed his first band, Umlaut, his senior year in high school. The band drew attention from some independent labels, but nothing really stood them apart from the dozens of other small-time metal wannabes. Once Gunnar discovered Norse mythology thanks to a girlfriend, the pieces clicked together. Umlaut became Wynternacht, and Gunnar embraced the sturm und drang of the Norse myths. This new incarnation eventually got the band signed, and they haven't looked back since. Now Wynternacht's music and image is steeped in Norse mythology, but that's just a bunch of bullshit that sells records.

Right?

Class: Mortal

Name: Targo Vleitnikov

Religious Affilitation: Leninist Communism

Description: Standing at just under 5'8" tall and weighing in at a 260lbs, Targo Vleitnikov is the shortest and stockiest of his 5 brothers. His black, medium-length hair is always unkempt, but clean. His black piercing eyes, show no sign of an iris and often dart quickly about his surroundings taking in what they can. Always alert, and ever watchful, Targo sleeps little, yet shows no sign of weariness even after over 40 hours of activity. His face holds the scars of many battles. A deep tan color fades to a rougher brown farther down his neck showing the fierce burn scars he holds from his days on the Russian battle lines in Afghanistan. He's nearly 50 years old and appears to have fought brutally for every second of his life. He wears a beaten up tactical helmet, faceless so as not to disrupt his vision. Along the left side of his helmet is painted in white, the Russian equivilent of the phrase "There is no honor among the dead." His clothes are military-styled, yet a mish-mash of tattered green and black material disguises his true apparel. Through the minor rips in the outer covering, the thick layer of modern-day body armour can be seen. Nearly two inches thick and covered in midnight-blue Kevlar, Targo's flak armor weighs nearly 50lbs by itself, and covers his torso from the neck to his upper-thighs. His arms are sleeved with gauntlets of smaller plates and black fabric. His hands covered by thickly-padded gloves that keep the harsh Russian winters and the blades of the sharpest knives from biting his skin underneath. Layer upon layer of thick military pants hide more steel plates, stitched into the fabric covering his legs and knees. Black tank boots wrap up the shin and calf, reaching up to his knees and enveloping his legs in hard leather. The multiple layers of his attire give him the opportunity to conceal many different types of weapons, from guns to knives, all over his body.

Alignment/Personality: Growing up in the cold-war era, Targo has always believed in the Soviet way of life. A hard-line russian by nature, he doesn't believe in anything but what he can see and feel. He lives only to see the greatness of the Soviet people returned to the world's military stage.

Equipment: His primary weapon is a Russian AN-94 Assault Rifle with a 50 round magazine. Extra mags are attached to his person in various places and in various pockets. He also carries the Saiga-12 tactical semi-automatic shotgun, slung across his back. A holster on his right side holds his MR-445 "Variag" pistol and two spare mags. Also hidden on his body are several knives and a P-9 Gyurza. His left boot holds a Russian PSS Silent Pistol firing the SP-4 7.62mm silent round.

Skills: Active participant of Russian boxing and street-fighting from a young age, Targo trained throughout his years at the military prep schools as a melee fighter. An extensive upbringing in the old Soviet way of life taught him that the most direct path to success and victory is usually the best. Foregoing any political ambition, he made a leap to the front-lines of the war, learning as much as he could as fast as was possible. A natural fighter, he lacked the skills as a leader, only able to command a few men at a time without becoming furious at himself and lashing out on his friends and allies. He fights fast and directly, preferring a quick ending to a long, drawn-out battle. Always going for the weakest points in his opponents first, he makes sure they are distracted by pain and surprise before administering the lethal shot. In one word, ruthless.

MORTAL

NAME: "Silence" Horack. First name unknown.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good. Does what's right even if it means doing wrong.

DESCRIPTION: A shadow of a man reaching an inch over six feet. Upper 200lbs. Long duster trench which flows like a cloak when he walks. Dark clothes, layers upon layers. His full face is never fully seen, kept in darkness. Only his piercing blue eyes and the long scar which runs the length of the left side of his face are visible. A chromed face mask obsures the rest, it's tarnished and stained with blood.

PERSONALITY: Intense. Quiet, hasn't talked in years. Sullen. Mysterious. A watcher, the eye in the sky. He can sum up most situations or anyone who he encounters in mere seconds. His most dangerous weapon: His mind.

Most fear him. A few see him as a tragic hero. But they never last long enough to redeem him.

He will act in an instant with little visible regrets.

EQUIPMENT: Full body armor, hybrid suit of armour of (his?) own design. Covers head, neck, and full body until ankles. Sleek. Mostly invisible save for the face mask portion. Vitals covered in extra layers of Kevlar. Despite countless battles, it doesn't show so much as a scratch.

Weapons known include 2 pearl handled .45s which he wears in a shoulder holster, 2 .50 Magnum Desert Eagles holstered at his hips, a semi-auto tactical shotgun, various knifes.

Most striking of all is the massive crystal Valkyre-styled sword he carries sheathed behind his back. Barely any weight to it, it can cut thru damn near anything. Fixed along the blade are dozens of sharpened metal wings...not unlike those found on the helmets of Valkyre warrior helmets.

He's also been seen wielding a Mini Gun from time to time.

Rides a heavily customed Indian Triumph Motorcycle which stores various emergency rations and general supplies. Never ammo. The gas tank as been reinforced to withstand several direct hits from even the heaviest of rounds.

SKILLS A savage fighter and master swordsman. Studied Kendo for years prior to 'the shit hitting the fan.' Demolitions expert capable of mixing and building his own heavy explosives. Trained himself to be an expert (if not quite master) tracker. His martial arts skill is vast if unfocused. Taking bits and pieces from every form and discipline he's encountered. He would rather shoot it out or blow it up then kick the shit out of it.

Cunning and unpredictable, with almost a superhuman timing and sense. A survivalist. Has enough medical and combat surgical training to patch himself and others up.

No one can get the drop on him. Intelligent.

Also a champion caliber motorcycle rider and mechanic. Base to over average grasp of mechanical engineering which allows him to upgrade his equipment to his special requirements, but little beyond.

HISTORY: Little is know about him beyond myth and legend. Save for one thing.

Is intense hatred for Valkyres.

Rumor suggests that his mother or father - his real one not the dozens of radical paramilitary "foster fathers" he spent his childhood and young adult years with - were murdered by one in front of his eyes. Versions of each circulate. Evidence of this can be seen in the sword he carries which is "adorned with the wings of Valkyres, trophies from battles won for a war lost."

Might have been a Motorcross Champion once, before he was drafted into his personal war. A military career is suspected, but if so his records are hidden, classified. An elite special forces commando perhaps.

Still more innuendo suggests that a great love was lost. How and why...remains unclear.

What is known is that he is warrior of the wasteland. Lives mostly in memories or myth. A hunter. A soldier...

MORTAL

NAME: Ajene (pronounced (ah-jah-naa)) "Fitz" Fitzgerald.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good - has no respect for laws but views human life as sacred. Has trouble with authority since the "very bad day" has happened.

DESCRIPTION: Clean-shaven African (Kenya) male, 5'11", approx. 180 pounds. Stocky, strong, but musculature is not well defined. 35 years old.

PERSONALITY: Friendly, outgoing to other humans. Learning to live with "our Norse friends". Has highly developed personal sense of honour and justice that rarely co-incides with what was legal before "the very bad day". Stubborn. Tenacious. Intensly curious. Open-minded.

EQUIPMENT: Carries at all times a Panga (Swahili word for Machete) called Nassor (meaning "victorious") slung over his left shoulder, and two Uzi sub-machineguns in holsters on either hip. Has military webbing gear with First Aid/Basic Medial/Survival supplies, a compass, and a small King James Bible.

Usually dressed in military fatigues with black t-shirt underneath long-sleeved olive green Army shirt.

No transportation, except sturdy military boots.

SKILLS: Is an Ex- Seminary trained Roman Catholic priest. Has advanced first-aid and first response medical skills. Good with small automatic weapons and with Nassor. Has black-belt, 3rd Dan in Judo, from military. Is an expert in all forms of survival training. Will eat things that would make a billy-goat puke.

BACKGROUND: Ajene is the son of a Kenyan diplomat and an American writer. He was born in Kenya and his family spent many years there before coming to the U.S., where his mother and father had been married. Ajene, upon reaching the age of 18, joined the US Army and got accepted into the joint Seminary chaplain program run by the Army and the American Dioscese. Went all the way through the program, and became an Army chaplain by age 24. Disillusioned by the oxymoronic existance of being a priest in service to those whose job it is to murder, he left the Chaplaincy and went back into the regular Army Officer Corps, where he threw himself into self-defence, survival and field medical training in preparation of eventually leaving the military. Satisfied that he had become almost completely self-sufficient without the need of large sums of money, he left the military at age 30 and became a wandering priest, helping out people the best he could, using religion the way he thought it was meant to be used, to elevate his peers. Was helping out at a small church in Maine when the Norse came.

Race : Mortal, US soldier

Name: Clive Branson

Appearance: 5,9 feet tall. Muscular, athletic build. Tanned skin. Dark blue eyes. Brown hair trimmed short. Facial features include a freckle of beauty marks on his right temple and a large scar on his right cheek, that he got during a bar brawl. His body is covered in scars, the result of his many battles. He constantly maintains on his face an air of cockiness and superiority.

Personality: The embodiment of "don't give a fuck". Arrogant, never afraid of anything, reckless. Tendency to act in suicidal ways and maniacally laugh in the face of danger. Never reluctant to put any kind of illicit substance in his body, be it alcohol (for which he sets no limits) or drug (only lighter stuff though, weed or the occasional mushroom). Chain smoker.

Alignement: Good, with an inclination towards selfishness at given times.

Equipment: His main weapons are two Katanas, which he named Ombra and Luce (Shadow and Light), constantly sheated behind his back. He also carries a pair of SOCOM equipped with laser scopes and a Colt Python that he customized as to have it carry twice the number of rounds. Those are his weapons of predilection, but he's able to use any one he can pick up.

Skills: Due to his training as a SEAL, Clive his a good melee fighter, to which he adds his mastery of Tae Kwon Do (his feet and legs are the most deadly part of his body) and japanese swordsmanship. Said training also made him a demolition specialist. He's also an expert marksman (he never misses his target with a sniper rifle) and trained with about every weapons in existence, including heavy artillery such as rocket launchers. Finally, he had a mechanic formation and can repair and pilot a good number of vehicles (even if he was mainly formed with helicopters).

History: Born in California, Clive was your average regular kid, not very discernable from the rest. He was highly intelligent but his extreme laziness made that he never rose very high in class. His father decided to set him straight by sending him to a military academy. There, Clive finally found something that interested him and quickly climbed in the hierarchy, eventually deciding to join the Navy Seals. He then underwent a lot of battles, during which he gained his scars, a hardness of character that never left him since and a disgust for the orders he had to execute at times.

During a routine mission over Greenland, a mechanical failure send him on the ground, cut off from his base and with no means to contact it. He wandered in the arctic desert for days, surviving at first on his rations then on the meager products of his hunt. He felt lost, like in some kind of frozen hell on earth. Unbeknowst to him, he had entered Nifhleim. He only realized it when his eyes laid upon the dragon Nidhogg, gnawing on the corpses of the dead. The abominable sight almost made him lose his mind and he fled in terror, running till all strenght left his body and he passed away, his legs giving way under him. He woke up a few days later in a Greenland hospital, having been found on the brink of death. He returned to the US, forever changed by the horror that he had witnessed. His new behavior didn't went well with the top brass and he was thrown out of the navy. Now, having traded the SEALS uniform for a suit of armor of his own making, his new philosophy is to live life at the fullest, waiting for death to come, persuaded that he must fight the ultimate battle against the minions of evil unleashed in this world.

NAME: Friija

RACE: Valkyre

APPEARANCE: 6'2. Slender. Piercing blue eyes. Straight blonde hair that flows down to the middle of her back. A set of strong silver interlinked body armor is covered by a huge flowing blue hooded cloak.

PERSONALITY: Strongheaded, loyal, slightly sad. Passionate.

ALIGNMENT: Good.

EQUIPMENT: Friija carries two longswords strapped to her back, Loenhar and Ragnar, and a dagger, unnamed, in a thigh sheath, and sometimes carries a bow, made from wood from the forests of Alfheim.

COMPANIONS: Friija's steed is Asynjur, a beautiful sheer white winged horse, with a silver mane.

SKILLS: She is very strong, and swift. She also has healing/protective magic skills.

BACKGROUND: For an age, Friija has been serving as a Valkyre, moving betwixt the worlds and collecting the dead, returning them to the halls of Valhalla. However, she has become frustrated. She is alone in her work, and her life, and yearns for something to happen which will enable her to fulfill the destiny she cannot, as of yet, see. She secretly wishes to be involved in all the glorious battles that the dead she brings back fight in, but is of course still loyal to Odin. However, she hopes one day he will let Friija take her calling, and journey into the unknown...

Name: Thomas Drake III

Race: Mortal

Appearance: Thomas Drake stands at 6’ 2” with a lean muscular frame. He has black hair with prematurely graying temples. He has dark brown, almost black eyes and wears a neatly trimmed beard. He adheres to a strict diet and exercise regiment to keep physically fit.

Personality: Thomas Drake is one of the wealthiest men in the world. Or at least he will be when his old man dies. However with the entire world at his disposal Tom Drake is yearning for something…anything to fill an unnamed void in his heart. With all his family wealth he can’t seem to find out who he is and what his purpose is. He has a strong desire to do good but can’t seem to connect to the world around him to do so.

Skills: As stated Tom Drake is exceedingly wealthy and as such has time and resources to devote to eccentricities. He is a superior athlete and enjoys a wide range of sporting endeavors, including Kung Fu, Kendo, Boxing, and rock-climbing.

Background: Tom’s foremost love is collecting art and ancient artifacts. His latest global jaunt netted an interesting piece; Wulfblud. An ancient spear of Norse craftsmanship found close to the Arctic Circle. Legend has it that a Viking warrior stalked a murderous brood of giant wolves to the frigid north and slayed them, yet forfeited his own life in the process. Whatever the tale, Drake is pleased to have it over his hearth.

TYPE: Mortal, former British solder

NAME: Dr. Carrington Jagger MacMagus, PhD (nicknamed Doc or "Jags"--the latter to his close friends only)

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION: 47 years of age. Stands about six-foot-five, his long white hair is swept back from his balding forehead down to his neck. Wears a pair of thin rimmed spectacles. Speaks with a clipped accent that sounds like a combination of each of the four members of the United Kingdom, stammers at times, prone to making grand sweeping gestures with his hands and body to illustrate a point.

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic good. Firmly believes in right and wrong, yet is not above breaking the law to help his friends. Incredibly loyal, intensley paranoid. A man of contractictions. Never married, never fallen in love, he has always been bound to his work-be it in the British military's research and development divison, as an amateur archeologist and adventurer, and finally as a reclusive stranger living in the North English countryside.

EQUIPMENT: A small leather bound journal with notes describing his research on Ragnarok kept in a small pouch at his waist. His clothing, almost as noticable as his grand personalty, can only be described as "adventurer's tweed." The unassuming fabric is actually a Kevlar blend, and several tiny pockets hiding pens/pencils, maps, tools, and the like line the jacket and pants. Around his waist he wears a gunpouch that carries a Desert Eagle Action Express .50, and hidden below his pants are a pair of Bowie knives, one sheathed around each ankle. Unfortunatly, he's not that great with either the knife or the Desert Eagle, so he frequently carries a longsword across his back. When he goes out in public or riding on his Hanoverian steed named Wallace , he hides the sword with a flowing cape with a maroon lining.

HISTORY: The last in a line of one of Scotland's oldest and wealthiest families, his mother told him the stories of his people and the world's people from a very young age. After getting a doctorate in mythology and engineering from Oxford, he entered the British military out of a sense of family duty, and soon became a key player in their research and development team.

At the astonshing age of twenty-six, he was asked to join an elite research and development project. After joining, he learned that the purpouse of the project was to study a number of "artifacts" that had been recovered around the world since the early days of the British Empire. So called "magic weapons," recovered from places like Stonehenge, the Middle East, South America, Russia...and the fijords of Norway.

All these artifacts seemed to have one thing in common. The world was not going to end the way the Bible said it was. There were going to be screams, fires, wars, global destruction, and blood.

Lots of blood.

When Doc MacMagnus tried to investigate this further, he discovered that he was part of a global cover-up. Facts had been kept from the public, world leaders assassinated who wanted to reveal the truth. Fortunatly, he was very good at what he did, and to this day hopes his supervisors don't suspect he found out the truth.

He left the program, and the military, at 32, and spent the next five years researching the end of the world. His research took him all around the globe, and everywhere he looked he found another set of lies. Sometimes these lies turned out to be lies themselves, and those lies were lies. The truth became fiction, and the fiction became truth.

After an attempt at his life in Isreal, he returned to the British Isles. He was thirty seven at this time. He sold off his family's mansion in Scotland, and moved to a remote corner of North England, where he built an elaborate mansion far away from human contact (indeed, the construction crews had to build special roads to move the equipment to and from the nearest village, and then re-seed them when they were finished). The mansion has become something of a local legend among children in the nearest village, as it, along with the surrounding area is said to be filled with booby traps to fend off intruders.

The man who lives there has not been seen in nearly a decade, and his paranoia only grows. He wanders the mansion's many rooms and the maze of basement tunnels he commissioned, reading ancient tomes, studying the few artifacts he found in his travels, speaking to the worldwide internet conspiracy community, and dreaming of a world ending in fire and blood.

Nightmares of Ragnarok.