Basic Information
Total Points: 40 Total Points
Visual Information
Personality and Abilities
Life Story
Perhaps it is just the way the Autumn breeze carries itself that inspires the horrors of the October season. That tenth month in all its glory, the bitter approach of winter just on the horizon as November demands its recognition and December trails along. Perhaps it is an omen that he was born when he was. Joppa Engeram, in his sprouted glory. A newborn. His brother, the eldest, was almost young enough to be the same age, and the sister that followed soon after was nearly as young as Joppa.
Perhaps his earliest memory is that of sitting on the floor of his home while his mother worked on a piece of his clothing, mending it. A creeping, black tendril felt to be wrapping itself around his heart and lungs as he watched his mother work with the sharp needles. The things that could go wrong. He knew them not be he knew they were plentiful. It ate at him. He could not stop it.
His father, a caretaker of horses, bestowed his trade upon his children who took it. The eldest with a harsh melancholia that was despised by the parents and fuel for the boy's distance. Joppa with pride and imagination. "From horses dragons will come at my hand!" He would say, insistent on creating a great monster horse that could do anything. Even fly. He would reverse breed his way to a Dragon! He wished gravely to do so. It was his motivation and passion for taking his studies seriously. And the sister with respect for the flow of the animal's stride. When he had it, Joppa made the time for his friends. Foolery and mingling and pet romances of youth.
Yet the little horse-boy found his interests drawn to reading. Stories. Adventures. Classics and fairytales and great wordy paragraphs all to say that the hero struck his blade out to kill the beast. He imagined himself in some distant time and place driving a magic amulet against his chest to call out the monstrous feeling wrapped up in his rib-cage so that he might slay it. In this imaginary tale he found himself freeing others of their creeping dread, as well.
A seed, planted.
Joining the militia, only fourteen at the time, birthed the seedling from its pod. It was during this time that he systematically and slowly maimed and killed the hounds of the town out of a great fear that they invoked in him. A twisted up horror that made the creature in his chest, his own anxious soul, scream out. So he killed many without going noticed. This preemptive action against the animals in his own favor is perhaps the first sign that he would go far to maintain himself and his sanity and what he perceived to be the safety of those around him.
It was time, eventually, for him to take a step forward. He rose to greater responsibility in the militia. He was something of a friend to the community. They knew not of his actions, only that some butcher had gone around with a knife and split the heads of so many dogs while going without notice. His own sectors of patrol maintained their dogs, in fact, as long as he was patrolling them. He did well by his post. Until he was moved with the next shift or placement schedule and he struck some down. Giving the illusion that he was a dedicated and excellent protector.
By now, he was a husband. A dreadfully distant one that read into the long hours or fought with his lover about which way was right to do what thing and why. Or how a thing ought to be when it isn't that way.
And a father. A dreadfully distant one that road into the long hours of the day.
And a family man. Who chose to have neither. He took his favorite horse, he took his things, and he went to where he had heard stories of Undead monsters. He would be the hero to save people from the Undead! He was ever so certain of it. This was, after all, how the stories all started. The question that haunted him until the Battle Of Rothburg was this: was it the right decision? On that battlefield as he took his horse into combat and struck out against that Marked beast on the battlefield and saved lives with his presence, he could know for certain that he had done the right thing.
He died, alone in a coffin surrounded by those who would be his friends.
Adal, and Thomas. His killers, his converters, and his companions. He served alongside them in the army of the Bone King. When the temporary alliance with the Etosians came about as a result of the Bone Horror crisis, he shipped himself off to Regalia in search of information. And, quietly, in search of adventure in the city. His time in Etosil and driven him to some amount of boredom. The adventure had been there but it had all come to be the same. Find individual, beat individual, box individual, kill individual, keep the Javalis, repeat. The idea was in fact originally Adal's, but he preferred to remain and keep watch over his new family.
Friends were found there in Regalia. And honor. The honor he desired. He believed himself, then, a servant of Estel. She brought the Bone Horrors, said the rumors. Perhaps too she brought he. And so he was of the ranks of the Nenyarina. Briefly he was an easily compelled fanatic that argued and fought with those better versed above him, but he was loyal. Proud. His name in passing had become, "The Rotten." He was a knight of sorts.
Then briefly after the battle of Rothburg and the siege of the city, he disappeared. Into the shadows. In reality, home. To New Ceardia. He had decided, after a time, that he had people to check on. So check on them he did. The only thing now that brought that eel back in full power to his lungs and made it twist and tighten was the thought of them. Children. A wife. Siblings. A father and mother.
His children were happy. One of his childhood friends had rewed his wife, and she smiled. When the odd and well-covered stranger ambled into town on horseback one evening, it was seen as odd. A brief curiosity. He was foggy-eyed and pale, but he seemed friendly enough. A child scampered to him, one evening, and he is said to have told a story about the Deathling monsters in Regalia.
He stayed for some time on the outskirts and watched. Observed life there. How different things might have been. He let that dread roar at him in the late evenings as he sat quietly in old work boots. For some time he had been lost. Others pulled their sway over him and he bent to it like a plant. He figured now was time enough to not let himself be taken into that any longer.
Returning to his new home. Regalia. The city that he had fought for. On multiple occasions he had decided this was home. So it was. He made it so. In his heart, all he needed was to get back into the thick of things. The root of things, with his blade high and forward. He wanted to engage once again in the thing he found honor in. Adventure. Peace-making. Warring. He wanted to become a knight.
This time, perhaps, he could do so with the living. Rather than segregated into the sewers like a creature. Perhaps, even, he could one day become a guard. Make something out of himself.
As of December the 21st he has arrived once again in the city incognito.
- Full Name: Joppa Radcliffe Engeram
- Age: 40 (Total), 26 (At Death), 14 (Since Death)
- Gender: Male
- Race: Mortis Javalis Colonial Ceardian
Total Points: 40 Total Points
- +10 Athletic Training
- +8 Nature Care Sciences
- +7 Pole Combat Skill
- +6 Cavalry Combat Skill
- +3 Blade Combat Skill
- +2 Bodycare Training
- +2 Shielding Combat Skill
- +1 Underworld Knowledge
- +1 Metallurgy Arts
- +10 Religious Knowledge (from Colonial Ceardian)
- 6 Cavalry Combat + 7 Pole Combat + 3 Blade Combat + 2 Shielding Combat + 10x2 Athletic + 1 Metallurgy Arts = 39
- Muscular Body Type
- Built Body Fat
- Common (taught by parents at home)
- Mortis Javalis Undeadism
- Wounds That Do Not Heal:
- Left Side Gash — Sustained during combat, this wound exposes muscle and his lower left ribs.
- Right Arm Blasted — During an older venture this limb was wounded, and its range of movement has been reduced so as to prevent him from reaching all the way across his chest, or towards his back.
- Left Lung Puncture — Minor restriction of left arm movement due to breast muscle damage.
- Right Ribs Bruised
- Left Shoulder Blade Damaged — Shoulder was split into three pieces while in combat with a bone horror. Shards have been removed and an iron plate has been inserted on the underside to bind the remaining chunks together.
- Minor Wounds & Bodycare Scars — Work done beneath the skin has left surgical points in some places where Joppa has been cut open, or where he has cut himself open. These are noted by cloth stitched over in patches, or where patches of skin have been sewn back together.
- Sternum Stab Wound — This wound goes under his sternum and through his heart, and has left a diamond-shaped blade incision.
- Joppa is poor and without anything substantial as far as housing is concerned. He mostly sticks to alleys and the smaller hiding spots when he needs to rest, but uses his lack of need for sleep or food to keep on the move. His reasons for keeping to Regalia have at this point become an attachment to the city itself, and what it has come to represent for him. He has found more adventure in this city than he ever did in his reading. Beyond that, he is at the moment without a job.
- This particular undead was originally born in New Ceardia, in a small settlement where his family raised horses. He is the middle of three children, with the others being his elder brother and younger sister. For some time he had a wife and children, but those days have passed on with his original death. The rural environment and hard-working lifestyle of his family created a very practical sort of man.
- At the moment, the undead is currently in search of another team to make himself a part of. Another group willing to take him in so that he might do well by others and himself. That's secondary to his grander, large-scale goal, of course. A means to an end. Beyond that, he would also love to find a place to put his boots and just rest. Preferably for a longer period of time. And with the way things have been going, he's hoping that he might find a way to re-integrate with righteous Regalian society, hopefully leaning on his participation on the siege and the Battle Of Rothburg.
Visual Information
- Eye Color: Brown
- Hair Color: Light Brown
- Hair Style: Short Unkempt
- Skin Color: Mortis Javalis Pale
- Clothing: Simple, Utilitarian Clothing (Leather Boots, Cotton Pants, Etc.)
- Height: 5'10, ~178 Centimeters
Visual Information (Expansion)
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The following is not required when filling out your character application. You may use bullet points or paragraphs, and are welcome to add more or less information as you see fit. The information in this section will not be reviewed. Want to be extra helpful to your reviewer? Use the Spoiler feature to make the content hidden so readers can read it when they want to, or skip it!
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Personality and Abilities
- First Paragraph: Perceptions of Joppa are likely to be polluted by his Undeadism, which has left him to carry and occasionally take on the assumptions baked into that affliction. He seems plagued with a violent streak, and he has tended towards a preachy holier-than-thou attitude that isn't helped by his high-horse half-assed honorable image. Whisperings of the man and first impressions would likely result in a gruff, poor-man's knight errant impression. Any knightliness found therein corrupted by the quickness to insult and assault that he takes on, further burdened by his willingness to steal and connive to reach his goals.
- Second Paragraph: Joppa's greatest anxieties, though they are innumerable and passive, root themselves in his own previous plights. Particulars of course being rather quick to make themselves known: poorly laid plans, disadvantageous engagement, poor use of funds, and the creeping dread of loneliness that even friends at hand cannot stem. The loneliness of not having one's people. A black shroud around all the good in his life is, in a great way, cast by his lack of other beings with a firm grasp on his ill circumstance. Then is his passive unease with all things temporary, found in his own first death. With that, things branch out. He engages in conflict, because perhaps if he starts the fight it will lead to quicker calm. If he tells others what is right, perhaps they will not wrong him. If he goes to blows with the idiot wearing the colors of the opposing gang or the opposing nation or opposing race, perhaps it will result in a better understanding for both individuals. Perhaps the ends will justify the means. Until he takes the path, he can not know. If he does not take the path, he dreads the crushing and ever-unending anxiety-twisted gut that would result. To say that the man is wholly defined by his anxieties, however, would be unfair to his ability to cope. He smiles often and feels the warmth of his second life in its chill. He has what he has, and that is enough to bring him the gentle calm that rests itself on his face and a begrudging, and perhaps knowing, smile. That feeling, the feeling of smiling that spreads like sickness, has firmly planted down into Joppa's heart. So the inky horror and the blissful kindness of reality soothe and purge at each other to create a firmly set gray.
- Third Paragraph: The preachiness he carries around fades away when one comes to know him, but it falls away to reveal a natural tendency to force morality-rooted discussions where they may not necessarily belong. At this point though, it will likely be clear to most that Joppa is more arguing with himself than anything. Perhaps it was a blow to the head as a boy, given his tendency to ramble quietly to himself and mutter off into eternity, or perhaps it was his death. Either way, the perception of his friends will be of one clear thing: an uncertain man that knows not where or how to take himself, only more recently finding his feet in a world full of angry goddesses and conflicts beyond his scale. Further, his sense of honor reveals itself to be legitimate and tied intrinsically with his want to make the people he respects happy.
- Fourth Paragraph: A long period of time had Joppa viewing the world in a stark black and white. This was to compensate, to an extent, with the trauma of his coffin death. That has, however, begun to shift. For a brief period of time following the Bone Horror crisis it seemed as though he himself had degenerated into some sort of feeble-minded and morally limp fiend at the beck and call of his whims and the wishes of his friends. This would be a false reading. That black and white that had for so long existed, had been purged out by the Bone Horrors. A void had been left. By Joppa's perception, he was the fruit of the loins of a mad goddess. Estel. A twisted idea. From this thought all things spread outwards. Forced killing and raising had been for so long permissible. But it no longer was, in his eyes. Blessings had to be accepted. A baptism in the Bone King's boxes was exactly that: a blessing from Estel. But that changed further. The very definition of the honor to which Joppa clinged began to unshape. Honor wasn't about stealing, or not stealing. Lying or not lying. It was a loyalty to a concept. The concept he took with himself in the final days of reflection was simple. A mantra: Do no more harm than well, breach not the freedoms held so dear lest you make yourself a hypocrite, and extend the hand of kindness rather than the placing the fist of righteousness.
- Fifth Paragraph (EXP): Joppa's sense of the world is a little brighter than one would imagine it would be, given that he has died and come back to life, and experienced first-hand the dangers of the Bone Horror event. Religion is an odd topic with him as well, given that for most of his life he was Unionist, before dying and settling into agnostic points of view, before once again deciding that he believes Estel to be in some shape or form a matron Goddess of the Undead. Joppa considers himself disadvantaged due to his Undeath in a systematic sense, and seeks to return to a more stable social circumstance.
Life Story
Perhaps it is just the way the Autumn breeze carries itself that inspires the horrors of the October season. That tenth month in all its glory, the bitter approach of winter just on the horizon as November demands its recognition and December trails along. Perhaps it is an omen that he was born when he was. Joppa Engeram, in his sprouted glory. A newborn. His brother, the eldest, was almost young enough to be the same age, and the sister that followed soon after was nearly as young as Joppa.
Perhaps his earliest memory is that of sitting on the floor of his home while his mother worked on a piece of his clothing, mending it. A creeping, black tendril felt to be wrapping itself around his heart and lungs as he watched his mother work with the sharp needles. The things that could go wrong. He knew them not be he knew they were plentiful. It ate at him. He could not stop it.
His father, a caretaker of horses, bestowed his trade upon his children who took it. The eldest with a harsh melancholia that was despised by the parents and fuel for the boy's distance. Joppa with pride and imagination. "From horses dragons will come at my hand!" He would say, insistent on creating a great monster horse that could do anything. Even fly. He would reverse breed his way to a Dragon! He wished gravely to do so. It was his motivation and passion for taking his studies seriously. And the sister with respect for the flow of the animal's stride. When he had it, Joppa made the time for his friends. Foolery and mingling and pet romances of youth.
Yet the little horse-boy found his interests drawn to reading. Stories. Adventures. Classics and fairytales and great wordy paragraphs all to say that the hero struck his blade out to kill the beast. He imagined himself in some distant time and place driving a magic amulet against his chest to call out the monstrous feeling wrapped up in his rib-cage so that he might slay it. In this imaginary tale he found himself freeing others of their creeping dread, as well.
A seed, planted.
Joining the militia, only fourteen at the time, birthed the seedling from its pod. It was during this time that he systematically and slowly maimed and killed the hounds of the town out of a great fear that they invoked in him. A twisted up horror that made the creature in his chest, his own anxious soul, scream out. So he killed many without going noticed. This preemptive action against the animals in his own favor is perhaps the first sign that he would go far to maintain himself and his sanity and what he perceived to be the safety of those around him.
It was time, eventually, for him to take a step forward. He rose to greater responsibility in the militia. He was something of a friend to the community. They knew not of his actions, only that some butcher had gone around with a knife and split the heads of so many dogs while going without notice. His own sectors of patrol maintained their dogs, in fact, as long as he was patrolling them. He did well by his post. Until he was moved with the next shift or placement schedule and he struck some down. Giving the illusion that he was a dedicated and excellent protector.
By now, he was a husband. A dreadfully distant one that read into the long hours or fought with his lover about which way was right to do what thing and why. Or how a thing ought to be when it isn't that way.
And a father. A dreadfully distant one that road into the long hours of the day.
And a family man. Who chose to have neither. He took his favorite horse, he took his things, and he went to where he had heard stories of Undead monsters. He would be the hero to save people from the Undead! He was ever so certain of it. This was, after all, how the stories all started. The question that haunted him until the Battle Of Rothburg was this: was it the right decision? On that battlefield as he took his horse into combat and struck out against that Marked beast on the battlefield and saved lives with his presence, he could know for certain that he had done the right thing.
He died, alone in a coffin surrounded by those who would be his friends.
Adal, and Thomas. His killers, his converters, and his companions. He served alongside them in the army of the Bone King. When the temporary alliance with the Etosians came about as a result of the Bone Horror crisis, he shipped himself off to Regalia in search of information. And, quietly, in search of adventure in the city. His time in Etosil and driven him to some amount of boredom. The adventure had been there but it had all come to be the same. Find individual, beat individual, box individual, kill individual, keep the Javalis, repeat. The idea was in fact originally Adal's, but he preferred to remain and keep watch over his new family.
Friends were found there in Regalia. And honor. The honor he desired. He believed himself, then, a servant of Estel. She brought the Bone Horrors, said the rumors. Perhaps too she brought he. And so he was of the ranks of the Nenyarina. Briefly he was an easily compelled fanatic that argued and fought with those better versed above him, but he was loyal. Proud. His name in passing had become, "The Rotten." He was a knight of sorts.
Then briefly after the battle of Rothburg and the siege of the city, he disappeared. Into the shadows. In reality, home. To New Ceardia. He had decided, after a time, that he had people to check on. So check on them he did. The only thing now that brought that eel back in full power to his lungs and made it twist and tighten was the thought of them. Children. A wife. Siblings. A father and mother.
His children were happy. One of his childhood friends had rewed his wife, and she smiled. When the odd and well-covered stranger ambled into town on horseback one evening, it was seen as odd. A brief curiosity. He was foggy-eyed and pale, but he seemed friendly enough. A child scampered to him, one evening, and he is said to have told a story about the Deathling monsters in Regalia.
He stayed for some time on the outskirts and watched. Observed life there. How different things might have been. He let that dread roar at him in the late evenings as he sat quietly in old work boots. For some time he had been lost. Others pulled their sway over him and he bent to it like a plant. He figured now was time enough to not let himself be taken into that any longer.
Returning to his new home. Regalia. The city that he had fought for. On multiple occasions he had decided this was home. So it was. He made it so. In his heart, all he needed was to get back into the thick of things. The root of things, with his blade high and forward. He wanted to engage once again in the thing he found honor in. Adventure. Peace-making. Warring. He wanted to become a knight.
This time, perhaps, he could do so with the living. Rather than segregated into the sewers like a creature. Perhaps, even, he could one day become a guard. Make something out of himself.
As of December the 21st he has arrived once again in the city incognito.
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