Post by VEE :: THE CONQUERER on Dec 22, 2009 22:08:01 GMT -5
Classified
(In other words, I can't find one)
¡B A S I C!
Name: Ananzi. Just Ananzi.
Nickname: Nicknames? You kidding?
Birth Place: South Africa, KwaZulu Natal, in a small shack in one of the many slums.
Ethnicity: African, pure and simple.
Age: That's a subject under much debate. Old, though. Definitely old.
Birthday: It's in the peak of summer, but that, like much more about him, is unknown.
Main Language: He's fluent in English, and prefers to conduct conversations in it. However, his first language is isiZulu, though he also speaks Tswana, Ndebele, Sesotho, Afrikaans, and some of the European languages, with marginally less skill.
¡D E S C R I P T I O N!
Eye Color: Dark, reddish-brown, almost black.
Hair Color: Black, when he lets it grow. He's usually bald.
Height: 6'2. No great size, for a Zulu warrior by lineage, but what is that to him?
Weight: Average.
Distinctive Marks / Scars: He has three hrozontal scars and one vertical scar on each cheek, a mark of his highly specialised initiation.
Tattoos / Piercings: No. No frivolity. It's unnecessary.
¡P E R S O N A L I T Y!
Personality Description: Cold. Indifferent. Impassive. Take a statue, carved out of the deepest ebony. Veil the eyes, seat it on a throne. There's no body language, no hint of true emotions, no frustartion or anger, mirth or disdain. Just coldness. Empty coldness.
Don't be fooled. There's almost certainly a lot going on inside his head. Who knows? He may even have a sense of humour. But none have seen it. Not even his most trusted have been allowed that priveledge. Even on the battlefield, in a job, where he frequently presides (he is not the sort to leave the work to others) there's no space for feeling, expression. So there is coldness. Creepy blankness. It makes him the best at what he does. It gives him a name, a fearsome reputation. Take care not to be driven mad by it.
Likes:
Weaponary
Heavy thunderstorms
A chase
A conquest
Watching people squirm
Leopard fur
Dislikes:
Lackeys
Overconfidence
Failed attempts
Stammering
Fear
Those with skills that do not work for him
Yorkshire Pudding
Hobbies:
Metalworking
Learning obscure flighting styles
Oh, and butterfly collections. Yeah, right.
Fears:
UnQuesilwe
¡O C C U P A T I O N!
Guild Name: Spider. In any language, any form, it all comes back to mean Spider.
Location: South Africa, the epicentre of all happenings in the continent, just outside Johannesburg. Jozi, the city of gold.
Position: Guildmaster
Assignment:
- - - - - -
Strengths:
Skilled fighter
Fiercely intelligent
Powerful personality
Good with directions
Man of few words
Knows people
Can cook formidably
Weaknesses:
Does not like very cold weather
Paranoid
Many unresolved issues which tend to turn up at inopportune moments.
Ability:
Vague future sight, but his main skill is illusion. Strange, and unexpected, but it wasn't really his choice to make.
¡H I S T O R Y!
Many, many years ago, when the slums of South Africa were just coming into existence (and that really makes it a long time), Ananzi was born. He had a different name then, as he was bestowed with beads and ritual, praised and wondered at. He also had a different name as he played in the streets like any other child, dodging the horse and ox-drawn carts of the foreigners who began to litter the country. He kept that now-lost name as he grew up, becoming a young man, passing through the rituals and intense training that would make him a warrior.
But, on some eve, when he was just becoming a man, the name began to slip away.
He met some foreign men, just arrived from over the sea, far away. They spoke an odd tongue, but they managed to impress on him that they were very important men. So what? He didn't care how important they were, They were foreigners. They had a strange name for themselves. Al-khe-misti. However, he was not interested in becoming a servant, porter, whatever it was they wished, and moved away.
They weren't finished with him yet. No one knows the details of what occured that night save him. The alchemists are dead and buried, so he believes. He made sure of it. The end result is what matters.
Three weeks later, three months later, three minutes later, the man walked out of a bar. Changed. He stumbled back to his village, soon-to-be slum. The villagers knew. Knew that he had been subjected to some witchcraft, performed by some evil sangoma. They knew because he didn't look like himself. He didn't look like anything. They banished him, fearing this change, not knowing what to expect.
And so Ananzi was created. He tried, tried to fit in, join any village, tribe, group of outcasts. He became better at control, solidifying his image. But they knew. They always knew. Things happened. People appeared. Other people disappeared. Spider grew, as the man picked up others, like him, unlike him, who held the same goal. Rid the world of those who are different. Those with extra skills.
So far, he's not lost a mark yet.
And The Word Is? Coagulated
