Born of the Ice

[hshotwell]

Sygdrid Icecloak a Knight of justice back in the day of the exodus. He was Lord of the old House Icecloak and battled bandits with his every breath. A man of little words and harsh ideals, along with the ocational howl. And yet his fight for justice and dedication only resulted in him and his wife's banishment. The bandit lord deadpress used his influence to get rid of a nuisance, and in doing so created a future monster.

Born in this frigid Isolation was Sygdrid's son. His name is hidden and he is simply referred to as the cloak/icecloak, or shotwell, window gazer, the mask, widower or any manner of other nicknames. He was raised in banishment but now he has returned. The exile sculpted him, removed his emotion and replaced it with callouses. It has given him perspective. The world isn't fair and the common law does nothing to stabilize things. It is just another front for those in power to keep control.

His eyes are cold and sharp
His grin is false and evil
His face a mask of shadows
the mask tells a truer tale
His sword a flash of lightning
and yet so still by his side
Sleet, the bane of many
and Storm, a woeful bride

Thirteen, Thirteen slayed solemnly by an icy man who does not know their name.

(I'm counting the four RP kills and three heads I got a hunting)

There is a storm coming, when it hits your all gonna wonder how you could live so large and leave so little for the rest of us.

 

[hshotwell]

We are coming, my brothers of the street and alley and sewer are rising. Those you so cruelly neglected are coming to right your wrongs. It doesn't matter who we are, all that matters is our plan.




No one cared who I was until I put on the mask.




Your end is near. My brothers are angry. The end is near.

 

[Shrimpsy]

Write more now!

 

[hshotwell]

zzzzz *snaps awake* wait what? Oh yeah, just five more minuets of sleepy stu....zzzzzz

Added, some pics but am too lazy to write much as of now, so just a bit of ominousness.

 

[hshotwell]

Small poem attached with name of bow and sword plus his skin.

 

[hshotwell]

(just updating down here because I'm lazy)

Many moons now scince this masked murderer has come back from the edge of society. His eyes are cold and emotionless, distant, there is a sorrow there, a pain. Sometimes he speaks in circles, sometimes he speaks like one of them, sometimes he does not speak at all, gazing longingly in the distance, gazing to the future. Always there is a calculation in his voice, a plan. He no longer has any love for this world, but he is to smart to gamble his one shot away. Still he plans and schemes. An evil wave slowly approaching the coast, capsizing all that stand between. In his short time here he has killed 7 already, 7 were foolish enough to cross him to early, many more will cross him again, and find out their wrong doing to late.

 

[hshotwell]

(Another update!)

Seeing one with the plague, the masked man saw it fit to end his life in the quickest manner possible. After stabbing the infected one Lord Icecloak walked to the roof to watch the rest grieve. It was a beautiful sight. However, several self appointed justiciers saw it fit to avenge this already dead man's death. A battle then chase ensued. One of the balloons to the wilds was burned and this murderers body with it. But his bandit brothers were quick to the scene and able to retrieve the body before anyone else. The sisterhood, to naive to judge whether one worthy of revision or not brought this evil back for a second time. More furious then ever and bent on revenge, but temporarily crippled. Icecloak is mad. Those who are guilty, beware.

(I will be taking a one week break from SWing and RPing, maybe this whole server, to represent this healing process and gimmy some time to work on other stuff. Good job to Minez and Rygan_deathblade for a relentless assault, in one weeks time, I will return the favor.)

 

[Mitch]

...So, uh... I should probably stay as far away from Rygan as possible then, huh?

 

[hshotwell]

His powers are extremly firelishous. Yes.

 

[hshotwell]

I'm bored of staying away, I'm coming back! slightly burnt though

 

[Viranus Regula]

Eight* killed. You got Gelyk.

 

[hshotwell]

He is dead, I thought I just got his arm

 

[Viranus Regula]

I think they changed it.

 

[hshotwell]

Sword:

My weapon's name is Sleet (sharpness V)
A subtle, unassuming blade, but its edges are sharp and thin as if its owners spent all their spare time perfecting it (I do!) It is slightly thinner then in the picture, but still rather ordinary seeming, its deadliness comes from the bitter truth of death it always speaks. It is plain as a sword should be, it does its job, it is held by evil.

It does nothing extraordinary, at first glance it seems a simple long sword. But it's edge is as thin as paper. Its owner as obsessed with maintaining the simple perfection of this blade as some are obsessed with minecraft.

When in Exile, the young masked murderer had very few belongings save his fathers sword, Moonbeam. He loved that sword, but was forced to sell it so that he could return to the Northern Kingdoms. There he vowed he would find that blade once again, he is still looking. In the mean time he decided he needed a substitute blade. After stealing the iron from a blacksmith he began forging the sword himself, the work went slowly for he could only use the smithy when all else were sleeping, and then each swing of the hammer woke everyone. So, each night he would get to pound the hammer on the steel once then quickly run for cover. Night by night the sword progressed. The growing boy became fond of the blade, still he crafts it meticulously, sharpening and repairing. Never stopping. Sleet, the subtle stabber. Sleet, the bane of many. Sleet, slick with blood.

 

[Zero]

I like all the detail you put into this. It makes a very good idea of what the blade would look like. Even though there is a picture I thing the detail is what makes the better picture in my head. Very nice. I look forward to RPing with you and against this blade. ^.^

 

[hshotwell]

Thank you, likewise to you and your equally sharp scythe

 

[hshotwell]

A screaching wind moans on in the ever expansive whiteness, more blinding than that of pure black. One calm rythmic breath labors to the same beat of a steady crunch as feet work through the snow. This is not a desperate march, nor a casual one, more a ritualistic and dedicated walk. The last surviving member of the Icecloak bloodline trudges on with impasive eyes. He has been walking for nine days now, the mountain should be close. He syumbles in the snow and takes a moment to brush himself off and regain his composer. Something about the constant forced politeness and intensity of this man gives the fealin that he could snap at any moment, like it is a strugle for him not to tear at you eyes until you too see nothing but the white. But for now he is calm, he has a mission. Another hour of walking reveals a great figure in the distance. A sturdy srt of outline that can only be Mt. Snowstrom. There is only the slightest tinkle in his eyes to signify his relife of finally reaching his destination. He spends the night at the base of the mountain, readying himself for the climb ahead.
(I'm gonna make one or two updates like this more today so stay tuned)

 

[hshotwell]

Lord Icecloak rose early that morning, although the light of day was hard to distinguish it would have been a beautiful sun rise in less grey regions of the land. The lonely man took of his pack and unbuckled his sword from his belt, storinf all his earthly posetions in a small alcove at the base of the mountain. This section of the journey must be made in absolute pureity. Althought it pained him to leave his sword he began the climb. Mt. Snowstrom is not a traditional mountain, it does not get gradually steeper, it doesn not start at a gradual incline to ease you into the process of gaining altitude. No, Mt. Snowstrom starts as a sheer rock wall and does not let up save for several rare perches. But chalenge is the only way to live. A running jump and wall step launched the Icecloak on his way up the mountain. Hand and foot, slowly, dedicated, and with sudden bursts of speed the mountain was scailed. By nightfall his hands grew shaky and legs creaked with each move. There are secret tunnels within the mountain that the climber knew of, but to use those would soil the ritual. So still he climbed until at last he reached a small branch half way up the mountain, a tiny tree growing in this bizare environment. The spirit spruce it was nicknamed by those who lived here in the past, the ancient Icecloaks. With one hand clinging to the branch the other hand tore off his ccloak and used it to tie his waste to the base of this little plant. Here he hung, sleeping suspended in the air by nothing but a clinging tree and his hand woven cloak.

 

[hshotwell]

The mountain climber woke to find himself staring hundred of feet down to an almost certain demise. This sight startled him briefly as his dreams of stabbing were so pleasant, but he soon remembered his situation. Turning gingerly with his sore body he undid the knot on his cloak that allowed him to rest. He climbed again as he did the day before, moving even slower and more carefully. But still he stays with his mission to the end. Digging his nails into the stone, scrabbling desperately upward eternally. Finally his weary left hand feels a cold comfort, snow, the top of the mountain. With one final heave he pulls him self onto the pinnacle of this sacred slope. Weary and with tattered clothes he lays a moment in the snow, regardless of the cold. The top of Mt. Snowstrom is perfectly flat you see. This in relation to the incredible steepness, creates an almost rectangle like mountain. As if the mountain were raised like a wave, trying to touch the moon, and in trying to reach it, the tip was sliced off perfectly flat by Lycanria herself, for no one or thing is allowed on the moon though all envy it. At least, that is the legend of the mountain. And so once a year all Icecloaks have a tradition of climbing to the top of this mountain where they are closest to Lycanria, and there they pray and enlighten themselves. The Icecloak stood once moor and walked to the center of the peak, there he drew a circle, and crescent moon and snowflake within that circle. In the center he sat, three days he sat there, no food or water, always keeping his mind clear. Each night he howls his heart out at the moon, and each day he focuses his mind listening to Lycanrias words. It is an ancient ritual that strengthens both mind and body. There are many deeds his mistress has communicated to him in this time, but those are not for you to know. Not yet.
(thanks for reading that little story, hope it explains where my character was in my temporary absence)

 

[hshotwell]

To prevent further confusion and so it doesn't just seem like I'm making this stuff up on the go, here's my arsenal:


One short sword, Pocket Pouncer (worn on his hip).

One long sword, Sleet (confiscated by the city guard).​

One obsidian plated skull, final stare (my wither skull on my head).
One short bow, Storm (usually unstrung and on my back).
Six Arrows (next to my bow).
Seven daggers (scattered around in pockets, one tiny one in my mask, one in my boot).
Five purple vials, Noxious Vapors (scattered around in pockets).
Two green vials, Acidic Chemicals (scattered around in pockets, one in my mask).