Jobs Completed: 162
Jobs Failed: 1
Latest Job: Hired Sword for the Shadow Hand Guild
Favourite Weapon: Scimitar Minion: Shorak the Pirate Gallion
I'm nothing like my namesake, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, if you were wondering. You may have heard of him, but if you haven't, don't bother looking it up. Its a waste of time. Truly. I'll tell you all that you need to know. Thank Fyora for that too. If I were a crusading fool with such little talent, no brains and of such middling, mediocre abilities, I'd probably go and...er well, suffice to say, we share no common ground. I for one, live for battle and take glory in the pure adrenaline rush when an opponent is bested. Taking in that split second before they hit the ground and catching that flash in their eyes; the one that speaks of fear and the unexpected realisation that they are in trouble: it's intoxicating. I live for that moment. Also, I'm really, really good at what I do. I have more talent for the warrior arts in my little pinkie than that poor rockhead Wilfred could ever hope to achieve within a lifetime of training. Make that two lifetimes. That's the way of it I'm sorry to say. I'm not boasting either, I simply speak of facts. I don't know what my parents were thinking when they chose to bestow this name on me. I guess they were hoping in some misguided sense that some of ol' Wilfred's ideals and virtues would instil themselves in me and guide me as I was growing up. Maybe they thought that i would sometimes pause and ask myself, What would Wilfred do? You know the type he was? Brave, loyal, true. A vacuous crusader-knight for good, coming to the rescue of fair maidens everywhere. Me? I'd describe myself more as a sellsword. Opportunistic, turncloak, liar. Money wins my heart. And no, there is no heart of gold beating deep within my chest.
Sorry ma, sorry pa. I probably didn't grow up quite the way you envisioned.
-"Eh?" In a languid motion, Ivan set down his tankard on the scarred, pockmarked wooden bench and raised a questioning eyebrow at Tinto. The mustachioed innkeeper's brow was furrowed, the oily wiping cloth in his burly hands suddenly still. His eyes were focused and staring intently past the serving bench and at Ivan's left side.
-"Your armour is melting."
And so it was. The polished obsidian and steel armour that was normally strapped to Ivan's left arm had begun an astonishing metamorphosis. The lowest bracer's edge was no longer solid steel but rather it was liquifying before Tinto's bewildered eyes, coalescing to an iridescent quicksilver and dribbling casually down Ivan's jacket in fine rivulets. Ivan wiped his mouth as he glanced down, a surly look crossing his face. An annoyed sigh escaped under his breath.
-"Dangit, not again Proto." Tinto wasn't really sure what happened next, save that the harebrained mercenary was suddenly on his feet, swinging his right, gauntleted arm into the face of a ragged, cloaked and apparently homeless looking human. A flash of light and a sudden clatter revealed an ornate silver dagger hitting the floor as it flew out of the attacker's grip. The attacker howled in pain, stumbling back and holding his bleeding nose. The grungy cloak flapped aside and for a split second revealed that the attacker was clothed in luxuriant crimson velvet robes. Tinto stared in foggy confusion at Ivan's polished silver gauntlet on his right arm as the mercenary grabbed his attacker roughly by the cloak and pushed him to the ground. The mercenary had been wearing leather gloves when he enter the inn. He couldn't possibly have changed them?
-"Ferwin. You know that your sneaking is pathetic." Ivan's tone was vehement with barely concealed anger. "Trying to slide a blade in my back eh? A poor attempt as usual. You may want to consider hiring someone more competent than you. A street rat beggar has a better chance of succeeding than you do. Coward!" He spat on the floor and released his iron grip from Ferwin's filthy cloak. A look of panicked relief darted across the attacker's eyes as he rolled over, scrabbled to his knees and darted out the door to a chorus of raucous laughter from the inn's other patrons.
Ivan watched Ferwin scurry away with a guarded look on his face. Suddenly, all the tension flowed away from him and he shrugged and laughed. "Sorry Tinto. My bad." He knelt by his overturned stool and reached a beckoning hand to the puddle of quicksilver on the floor.
You really are useless sometimes Proto. How am I supposed to rely on you if you chicken out on me like that when I need you?" The puddle arched up with a life of its own and flowed up Ivan's arm towards the remainder of his plated shoulder armour. There it fused with and reformed the rest of the bracers, seemingly returning to a solid state. Standing to his feet, Ivan grinned sheepishly and ran a nervous hand through his teal hair.
-"Sorry about the mess Tinto, put it on my tab."
-"Your tab is at its limit."
-"I promise I'll pay soon!"
She is a gentle soul that I get along with tremendously well. She is curious, mischievous and entertaining young creature, calm and sensitive to the needs of others.
Alatariel is fond of most and although she shows a trait of being shy in her personality, she is not one to be crossed...not that I can imagine anyone wanting to harm such a gentle and carefree soul. She is not bitter, malicious or vengeful, but rather she can stand up for herself and her allies - a trait that I strongly admire for I do not see it in myself. She practices as a healer. I understand she gained her knowledge from intuition and practice, but she truly is gifted as many need to study for years before they achieve her level of proficiency.
Mucro: Sword, edge, dagger.
Protego: Cover, defend, protect, guard against, guard from, hide.
Mucro can take the form of any weapon, real or imagined, almost instantaneously. When danger threatens, the predominant form instinctively assumed is that of a blade such as a katana or scimitar, but all forms are possible; maces, staves, bagh nakh, even throwing weapons (though it sometimes gets a little messy to retrieve Mucro in that situation). When not in use, Mucro usually favours the form of a katana or other slim, elegant blade and hangs in a sheath at Ivan's waist. He can also metamorphose into other non-weaponised objects, for example a metallic statue, but this requires immense concentration from Ivan and the form cannot be held for more than a few minutes (with one exception!).
When concealment or clandestine conduct is necessary, Mucro chooses to stay on Ivan's person as a silver gauntlet, or diffuses himself and merges with the numerous metal buckles on Ivan's belts. This is the only non-weapon form that Mucro can retain near indefinitely due to substantial practice. Mucro is highly disciplined and significantly more aggressive than Protego.
Protego (or Proto as Ivan enjoys calling him), is defensive in nature and can instantaneously take the form of any shield, armour or wall-like structure. Normally taking the appearance of steel-obsidian shoulder armour and bracers, Protego is substantially more neurotic, timid and observant than Mucro. He has on more than one occasion saved Ivan's life due to astute senses and prompt reaction to imminent danger. However, he also has an inconvenient tendency to start losing control over his form and reverting to his natural quicksilver state when feeling apprehensive or anxious. His favourite form is that of a large kite-shaped obsidian-steel shield emblazoned with the Mutego symbol.
Straight One-Handed Swords.
Temporary Ref sheet. Twas rushed. Can you tell? ;)
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KamZ. Thank you for this amazing portrait!
Visitors since 13 Januray 2005
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