Inactive Crota, a Philosopher

[Centurion]

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Full Titles: Crota holds no official titles as of yet.
Nickname/Alias: He has no given aliases yet.

KEY INFORMATION:
Age: 16.
Gender: Male.
Race: Human, full-blooded.
Social Status: Quite unknown.
Sexuality: Bisexual.
Height: 5 feet 9 inches.
Weight: Crota weighs in at around 150 pounds.
Date of Birth: He was born some sixteen years ago.
Date of Death: -
Homeland: Somewhere in the icy storms of the very far North.
Current Home: He is a vagabond.

PHYSIOLOGY:
Build: Lean, and lightly toned, but not overly strong or intimidating.
Hair: Crota wears his hear at medium length, covering human ears, in a dark crimson shade. It is thin and straight.
Eyes: His eyes are an uninteresting light grey.
Skin: A healthy color, with very slight tanning.
Identifying Marks: None thus far.
Clothing: Crota can normally be seen wearing an overlaying thin robe of black and light green which falls to just below his knees. Below the robe is a plain black tunic and dark charcoal colored pants.
Weaponry: He doesn't have much in the way of weaponry apart from one dagger, which he has spent several months personalizing. With a handle of black and a blade of dull green and silver, he calls his method of self defence 'Shard'.
Prized Possessions: Resulting from few expeditions through the Nether portal, he has a collection of blaze rods and preserved Nether Wart flowers.
Hygiene: He keeps himself clean.
Voice:

QUALITIES AND FLAWS:
Strengths: To be determined.
Fears: To be determined.
Weaknesses: To be discovered.
Intelligence: Crota would consider himself an intellectual.
Languages: He speaks Common in addition to semi-conversational Elven.
Profession: He does not currently have a profession other than explorer.

ETHICS AND MOTIVATIONS:
Personality: Composed and quiet, though around known company is nothing short of an extrovert.
Religion or Cults: Crota is very particular about not yet devoting himself to any deity.
Alignment: Very neutral.
Short Term Goals: Learn more.
Long Term Goals: Become more.

TRIVIA:
Favourite...
Place: Undecided.
Pastime: Undecided.
Food: Undecided.
Drink: Undecided.
Colour: Lively red, when in combination with black.
Animal: Phoenix.

Least Favourite...
Place: Undecided.
Pastime: Undecided.
Food: Undecided.
Drink: Undecided.
Colour: Undecided.
Animal: Undecided.

RELATIONS:
Loves:
Trusts:
Befriended: Samantha Ashby
Likes: Wulfe Artorius, Kahlan Dalihan, Adiella Cor
Neutral: Scardrac Dormus, Lucius Artorius, Sif Sigurd
Unsure of: Abigail Tucker, 'Jenny'
Wary of: Scardrac Dormus, Murdoc Marr
Afraid of: Archbishop Elias
Dislikes: Crusade, Damon the Ripper
Hates:

My in-game name is: MsDanniellie14

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[Centurion]

Imagine three great nations under three great queens. The first queen writes a great book of law and her rule is just. The second queen builds a high tower and her people climb it to see the stars. The third queen raises an army and conquers everything.

The future belongs to one of these queens. Her rule is harshest and her people are unhappy. But she rules.

This explains everything, understand? This is why the universe is the way it is, and not some other way. Existence is a game that everything plays, and some strategies are winners: the ability to exist, to shape existence, to remake it so that your descendants - molecules or stars or people or ideas - will flourish, and others will find no ground to grow.

And as the universe ticks on towards the close, the great players will face each other. In the next round there will be three queens and all of them will have armies, and now it will be a battle of swords - until one discovers the cannon, or the plague, or the killing word.

Everything is becoming more ruthless and in the end only the most ruthless will remain and they will hunt the territories of the knight and extinguish the first glint of competition before it can even understand what it faces or why it has transgressed. This is the shape of victory: to rule the universe so absolutely that nothing will ever exist except by your consent. This is the queen at the end of time, whose sovereignty is eternal because no other sovereign can defeat it. And there is no reason for it, no more than there was reason for the victory of the smallest insect. It is simply the winning play.

Of course, it might be that there was another country, with other queens, and in this country they sat down together and made one law and one tower and one army to guard their borders. This is the dream of small minds: a gentle place ringed in spears.

But I do not think those spears will hold against the queen of the country of armies. And that is all that will matter in the end.

 

[Centurion]

The song is death. To hear it is to die. To know the words is mortal. Oh - good point, death is just a word, isn't it? A catch-all term for the failure to go on, nothing spiritual, nothing with its own quiddity. We all died once, and it did not prove insurmountable.

But what if - what if - what if; shhh, listen; what if death were reified, described in its totality, made autonomous and universal, separate from any context or condition? What if She could invoke the ending of anything?

How, then, would She know the song, and sing it, without Herself dying?

Perhaps they know a way to make themselves part of the song, part of something vast and burning that rots and peels into ash but never ever ends. Perhaps She has engineered this for Him, and pinned His power up against the quiddity of death itself.

I am so terribly curious to know.

 

[Centurion]

You are dead, young Crota. Betrayed and murdered by your own sister, for the crime of mercy.

Remember what you said to the Ammonite Satellite Congress? ‘We will parley on neutral ground?’ Savathûn’s witches have rendered it utterly neutral. No living thing will ever claim it again. The space around the dry ground stinks of rot.

This is good. This is right. You will learn from this. Don’t you understand, great King? Don’t you want to build something real, something that lasts forever?

Our universe gutters down towards cold entropy. Life is an engine that burns up energy and produces decay. Life builds selfish, stupid rules — morality is one of them, and the sanctity of life is another.

These rules are impediments to the great work. The work of building a perfect, undying creation, a civilization everlasting. Something that cannot end.

If a civilization cannot defend itself, it must be annihilated. If a King cannot hold his power, he must be betrayed. The worth of a thing can be determined only by one beautiful arbiter — that thing’s ability to exist, to go on existing, to remake existence to suit its survival.

All that would oppose this arbiter is unholy and false. All the misery and terror of your ancestors springs from the lies of the Divine, who deny this truth.

Your ancestors endured the most hostile conditions. And now you must go on creating those conditions. Even unto your sisters. Even unto your offspring. Savathûn’s betrayal is the greatest gift she could offer you.

Your body is gone, but you have endured. Safe in the cyst universe created by your own might — your throne world.

From this day forward, Crota, you and your sisters will each survive death — so long as you aren’t killed in your own throne.

Even as your sisters press the attack against the Ammonites, the God-Wave devastates Fundament. Trillions will die. But the survivors will never forget... and their descendants will always be ready for another syzygy.

When you return to the material universe, use this lesson to complete your work.

Taox wasn’t in the dry ground. She must be laughing at you.

 

[Cap]

 

[Centurion]

That's actually an incredible screenshot.

 

[Centurion]

Added what may be his attire in the near future, assuming I can get a skin of it.

 

[Sankera]

I really wanna ro with this guy and I might make that skin for you

 

[Centurion]

Relations grow.

 

[Centurion]

Relations grow.