Active Rex of Lonmar


Dead Man Walking
Retired Council Member
Whoa there, cowboy. To answer your question, I made Rex when I joined the server, but a much more toned down version. I messaged staff if I could make the version of him that he is now. They said "ok", and the rest is history.
Lord almighty, I wish it was that simple for me!

Discussion is still taking place about Dum'ni's armor.


Lord of Altera

A flurry of snow battered at the pines, the usually sturdy trees buckling at the sheer force of the wind. The cold it brought was biting, uneasing, like chilling steel to the throat. There was little that Rex could do in the face of such ferocious nature but lower his head. He was in the midst of battle with his own eyes, which, with every passing moment, languished to lower their gaze. The snow beneath was blinding, a pure sheet of white. If he raised his head too high, the wind would pull off his hood, too low, and it would reach too far down his shirt. It was a delicate balance, but Rex knew that there was nothing better for him to focus on. He was to head south, opposite of the wind that resisted his every step.

“Fuck,” he muttered clumsily. His dry tongue flopped in his mouth like a dying snake. He scooped up a handful of snow in his gloved hand. It was a cruel act of fate that he was surrounded by water everywhere, but was damn nigh of dying of thirst. His eye squeezed into a wince just looking at the snow in his palm. Couldn’t eat snow because it’d freeze you from the inside, he learned. If you don’t have food you’d be wasting energy eating it. Rex felt at a pouch with his free hand. Didn’t have much food, didn’t have much energy. He crushed the snow and shook it off his hands like it hurt. He’d have to keep walking, make a fire at dusk, and melt some snow then.

Keeping which way was south in the back of his mind, the giant trudged over to the pines. He hammered at different branches, and yanked on others. They all felt too soft, too moist. He was waiting for a crack. His efforts were met with branches that mushed around from dampness, and were about as dry as a drunkard. When he finally found a group of them that snapped off with a satisfying crackle, he stuffed the whole bundle into his backpack. Maybe he could still get out of this. Step by agonizing step, keeping his feet moving along just enough to fend off the looming frostbite. That was how he’d get home, how he’d escape this mostly featureless plane. If it weren’t for the pines that slowly grew smaller behind him, he’d have little idea as to how far he’d gone, and it wasn’t a terribly large distance. He’d let his mind go numb like the rest of his body, hypnotized from the bleakness of it all, as the white horizon behind him finally eclipsed the pines in the distance. Soon, too, did the sun follow suit, its last rays scintillating on the snow. It was high time.

Rex shrugged off his outer layer of furs and cape, and set them aside. He’d sweat wearing all that while making his shelter, but leaving them off left him feeling naked. It was a sacrifice he’d have to make out there, somewhere between taiga and tundra, where sweating would be the death of you. That was the way of life. Grimacing at the cold, he produced his shovel off his back, and started sawing an outline of a trench. It took some shoving, jerking his arms, and a push of his body weight. The line had to be deep if the trench was to be worth anything. He chopped up the snow in the outline he made, before shoveling it out, block by block. He was a tall man, a strong man, but that only meant that it’d have to be larger. And that meant more effort.

With a heavy breath, he scooped the last of it out, and leaned on his shovel as he rested. Had he just spent the last hour digging his shelter, or his grave? He intended to find out with a long rest. But first, he’d need to have a fire going, and a drink. It was getting dark regardless. He scraped off a powdery layer of fresh snow off the ground with his boot, and then made a square platform out of the thick branches from his bag. He stacked some more up on the edges like a small wall, and then the smaller things went in after that: twigs, shavings, and wiry branches. He split a few of the thicker ones in half, and threw them in there with the rest. It would have to do. With clammy hands, he produced his small tinderbox, opened it, and dropped some of its flax and char cloth into a frigid palm. His steel came out next, shaped into a C that fit nicely around his fingers, and then the flint. He made a nest out of the flax over his lap, placing the char cloth in it like precious eggs, and brought the steel above it. Sparks flew as stone met metal, and a little orb of fire began to glow in the tinder. Pulling its ends into a ball, he blew on it gently, until a flame quickly flickered to life. Into the pile of firewood it went, making it its cozy home as the flame grew bigger into a source of warmth. There was something almost spiritual about creating something so alive out of the dead and mundane: the steel and rocks and twigs. Though his gaze lingered on the fire for a few moments, Rex wasted no time to make some water and warm himself up by the flames. Hot water never felt so refreshing.

He was grateful to be alive, to have not suffered the same fate as his friends who were eerily absent. It felt a sin to sit by a fire and have no company to enjoy it with. From night to night, they’d rotate who would be cooking for the rest, and cooking a meal was a great honor. Rex remembered being quite good at it, the nods and murmurs of approvals he’d receive from his bearded fellows as they joked about whores, sex, and fighting, returning home, or jeering some poor lad on suspicion of having a small cock. Dwelling on those memories was painful. But it was something to do out in a place where there was nothing. He reluctantly got up from his place by the fire and placed some of the leftover branches across the top of his trench, before draping his cape over the makeshift frame. It was the best he could do for a roof. He descended into his icy tomb. Time for sleep. Or whatever he could get of it.

Getting up was always the worst part of the morning. Having his joints cold and iced into place did not make matters better. With a heave, he rolled himself up and threw off the roof he had made. It seemed that for the night passed, his shelter had not become his tomb. But he had slept just as well as if it were one. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his back, twisted his arms until everything seemed to be moving properly. The fire still persisted with a vestige of smoldering life, embers continuing to glow. He kicked a cloud of snow onto it, putting it down. With all his layers on, he adjusted his cloak and cape before enduring onwards. His face felt less raw than the day before, perhaps due to the wind having subsided. The little things he would have to enjoy. Unfortunately, that was a difficult task when his fruits felt equally shrivelled and fragile at the life draining cold. The truth is that one couldn’t possibly hope to ever become acclimated to such extreme weather.

“You never become used to it…” he muttered through gritted teeth. “You just complain about it less.”

Yet, at the moment, stoicism didn’t feel particularly rewarding. Didn’t get him any closer to home, nor did it make him feel warmer. Didn’t bring him a hot meal, didn’t earn him the respect of his comrades for enduring it in silence, not bothering others with complaining. They were all dead after all, and really, it’s only the dead that don’t complain. Complaining might be the better thing at this point, Rex thought, at least he’d vent himself and give him something to do. Fuck stoicism, and all the brooding. But he was too tired to complain.

Hours passed, hours marked by nothing but sameness all around. Perhaps it really hadn’t been hours. Could’ve been more than that, could’ve been less. He really hadn’t a clue. It would have been prudent to have paid attention to the sun, but Rex knew his mind was now far from acute. It needed a whetstone to sharpen after being battered by the elements, yet, what was there to occupy his mind? More and more snow, stretching unhindered for miles in every direction, seldom perturbed by the rare treeline. He was wallowing in his own misery almost as much as he was wallowing through snow, and that was tiring, and crippling to motivation. Nonetheless, he was able to keep his extremities busy, squeezing his own hands, moving clammy fingers clumsily in his gauntlets. All he had to do was maintain that practice forever. Or at least until he escaped from this frozen hell.


It did not require much attentiveness on Rex’s behalf for him to know that it’d been days now since he last built his own fire. His paltry sum of food had dwindled until it was no more, and the last of his water, vanquished. His stomach burned with emptiness, and his tongue felt dry as a desert, barren as the lands he treaded. He was barely moving at even a trudge, and that pace, pathetic as it was, completely drained him as he struggled along, head dipped as he neared unconsciousness. Never fully opened, his eyelids began to droop, tired from squinting at blinding, spotless snow. A small black shape disrupting the immaculate horizon was a welcome change of scenery: something different. However, Rex made no effort to quicken his pace despite his curiosity, though from his exhausted state it was unlikely he could have even if he wanted to. As he drew nearer, the colors were revealed: grays and browns of furs and clothing, and then the shape. A body laid frozen in the snow, the exposed skin as gray and blue as a stormy sky, lifeless as stone. It was face down, a faint trail of where he dragged himself leading off from his legs. An arm was reaching out in front, stopped in the process of clawing at the snow. Frozen dead in his tracks. Rex wrinkled his face at the appalling sight, and tore his gaze away. There was another ahead, half naked with his clothes tossed onto the ground behind him. Rex’s breath stuttered and he fell onto a knee, the hand opposite to it planted in the ground. Slowly, his chest billowed, and his shoulders bulged from supporting himself up. He closed his eyes. The first sensation was relief, the next was as if his eye somehow inhaled deeply and breathed out all the pain. It was a brief moment of tranquility. He felt tired. So, so tired…

A pleasant thought washed over his mind. He wasn’t even sure what it had been, just that it had gone and passed and had felt warming like a thousand happy smiles. Gradually, he felt himself easing into the snow’s embrace, not seeming so cold or uncomfortable anymore. He wasn’t trying, but it was as if something was nagging at him not to sleep. Maybe there was a reason, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember why. It didn’t seem to matter anyways…

His will to move melted into the snow below him. His aching muscles began to tickle, and he almost felt happy again. Sliding shut, his eyelids effaced the bright world around him and revealed the ideal world of his mind. There, he was lying in a bed fit for a king, with a fireplace crackling nearby that casted darting shadows across the ornate walls, full of life. He began to feel warm. For a time, he enjoyed it, but the heat soon became unbearable. His coat came off first, and the next layers were to follow. But the comfortable world around him froze, and as his eyes opened again, it was replaced with the bleak reality all around. With his senses now returned, he’d caught himself stripping his clothing off, coat on the snowy ground and the next layer bunched in his hand. Needless to say, the heat was long gone, and Rex quickly scrambled back into his clothing. Now the cold burned him to his core, the strength of the pain matched only by his hunger.

He hated himself for thinking it… but those corpses were the only source of food he’d seen in days. There was no way of knowing of how much longer he’d be stumbling around in the blinding dark, trying to navigate out of the tundra. Life was not meant for here. Just a couple trees hither and thither, shrubbery sprouting occasionally, and the summers were no different. Seasons were a meaningless distinction. And so, Rex hunkered by the corpse that once contained a man, the life siphoned out of it by the breath and flesh of winter, wind and snow. That’d be his fate too, if he didn’t act. Rex was well aware, but could hardly look at his next meal. Where would he even start? He fumbled his knife out as if knowing the answer, but he was only stalling himself. Maybe if he hesitated, the will in him to go through with it would waver, and he’d abstain from such a horrible act. But that was Rex’s problem: he was not some dilettante in self-preservation. He was damn good at it, and an unrelenting fighter.

He tore off the clothes of the corpse and threw off a layer of his own. The knife thudded into the frozen flesh of the thigh, and the blade sawed jaggedly across. Rex vigorously cut away, until he felt the knife nip tender flesh. It was not completely frozen. Perhaps this person died more recently than he thought. Cutting into the bone was the hardest part, until impatience got the better of him and he batoned the knife through, snapping the limb free. The knife fell from his hand as he raised the leg up to his face, with all the care and incredulity of a man wielding their new trophy. His eyes belied screaming hunger, no longer a window with a man staring out, but an anguished animal. With bared teeth, his tongue lapped at the barely liquid blood that dripped, tasting like sickly tears. Now that he had his first sips of claret, it was time for the meal.


I absolutely love the detail and effort you put into this writing. I love everything about it, really, especially how you took care of how people feel an intense burning heat in the last stages of hypothermia and hallucinations. The archetype portrayal of Man Vs. Will to Live was also amazingly played out. Would love to see more!​


Lord of Altera
I absolutely love the detail and effort you put into this writing. I love everything about it, really, especially how you took care of how people feel an intense burning heat in the last stages of hypothermia and hallucinations. The archetype portrayal of Man Vs. Will to Live was also amazingly played out. Would love to see more!​
Thanks, I appreciate the positive feedback.


Lord of Altera
For anyone that cares, the profile has been significantly streamlined and rewritten. Cut out a lot of the bullshit pretentious writing, which was originally meant to be ironic. However, hindsight is an amazing thing, and I now think it was stupid. Relations have been cut down to a bare minimum until I RP with more people. The armor and weapons section will be redone eventually in Photoshop.

And there's your yearly update. Thanks.