Ascendant Prophet
Name: Ascendant Prophet
Caste: Zenith
Nature: Paragon
Anima: A constantly expanding set of golden sunbursts, growing to the sound of thunder as more essence is pumped in.
Concept: Wandering Medicant Priest
XP Left/Total: 5/56
Attributes
Strength 4, Charisma 4, Perception 2
Dexterity 5, Manipulation 2, Intelligence 2
Stamina 2, Appearance 4, Wits 4
Abilities</b>
<b>Athletics 3, Awareness 2, Dodge 5, Endurance 2, Linguistics 2(High Realm, Riverspeak, Skytongue), Lore 2, Martial Arts 5(Awe-inspiring +2, Announced attack +1), Medicine 3, Performance 3, Presence 4, Resistance 1, Socialize 2, Survival 3
Backgrounds</b>
<b>Backing 1(Cult of the Illuminated)
Mentor 3
Virtues</b>
<b>Compassion 3, Conviction 2, Temperance 3, Valour 3
Virtue Flaw Aesthetic Spirit, only more self-mortifying than being alone.
Willpower 6
Essence 3
Personal 15
Peripheral 38
Health Levels 0*1, -1*3, -2*4, -4*1, Incapacitated
Merits and Flaws</b>
<b>Charms</b>
<b>Athletics: Strength Increasing Exercise(3m/dot)
Dodge: Reed in the Wind(1m/2dice), Shadow Over Water(2m)
Endurance: Ox-Body Technique*1(-1*1, -2*2)
Martial Arts: Secrets of Future Strife, Flight of Mercury(1m/init), Blade of the Battle Maiden(2m/die, 2 wp), Joy in Adversity Stance(5m), Violet Bier of Sorrows(6m)
Performance: Masterful Performance Exercise(2m/success), Respect Commanding Attitude(5m), Phantom-Conjuring Performance(5m)
Survival: Hardship-Surviving Medicant Spirit(5m)
Sorcery</b>
<b>Power Combat</b>
<b>Base Initiative 9, Soak 2B/1L/0A, Dodge 13, Mobility Penalty 0, Fatigue 0
Fist: Speed 9, Accuracy 11, Damage 4B, Defense 12, Rate 5
Description
Northerner! Hair blonde only by virtue of the sunlight in it, blue eyes. Few days worth of beard growth. The body typical of one who preaches the perfection of body and spirit, concealed by a monkly robe, now missing the sleeves, which are torn into strips, inked with prayers, and used to bind the arms and wrists. There's a headband that's used to be white like the rest, but there's enough blood in it it's now red. He's lugging a wagon axle with the wheel on one end, with prayer strips on it, and his worldly possessions in a bag on the other.
History</b>
I was born in the frozen north, where the wind howls like a mother losing her firstborn and the snow is as thick as an elephant. My name was Toshido, and I was lucky, in that my family lacked for very little. My father was a respected merchant in the Haslanti League, and to this day I remember a trip taken by airship for a special meeting of his business partners. From a young age, I was raised to be the heir of the business, a position coveted by my sisters and brothers, but I didn't care about that. I learned the arts of oratory and poetry, trained with the finest professors of the sweet science, and managed to rack up an astounding streak of wins, much raising my stock amongst the younger, and some not so young women who frequented the matches. But I tired of this, the dandies and those fighting for the crowd, and simply stopped.
I suppose I started frequenting the red light districts simply for something to do, and annoy my father, for I was at the age where both things are extremely important. Of course, it soon became the taverns, and eventually an opium den here and there. The bad boy rep didn't hurt my chances with the ladies of higher rank, and they smelled better. One day, full of myself, I was accosted by a man perhaps a little smaller than I, who demanded my purse. I laughed, for he had no weapon, and simply put up my hands. For the first time in my young life, my ass was sorely beaten. I was all for chasing him down with the guards, but mindful of my reputation, I decided to handle things more subtly. I tracked him down, using my backup purse for bribes twice, and went to his little hovel with revenge in mind. I saw a wife and children with smiles on lined faces, seemingly in awe that they had fresh fruit and soap, and not even on a holiday. My wrath vanished, and for the first time, I took a good look at the squalor I was so harshly spoken of for touring.
Here, I had thought it was merely an entertaining difference, but no. They weren't doing it to be different, or because they weren't good enough, or any other pleasant lie. This was really all they had. I knocked on the door, bowed slightly, and asked if he would mind being hired as a trainer. Thus, my introduction to the school of hard knocks began, but I emerged triumphant, cleansed of my previous urges. That night, I dreamt of a human pyramid, seeing how those above fought the ones below, and another, where surprisingly, the low were lifted up. However, as an unexpected surprise, the talk began to worsen. I wasn't just a boy acting out boyish urges in public, now I was a rabble rouser and a thug, a dirty fighter, and maybe I'd been cheating for all those other fights...
The day I left home to hunt with a few of my newer friends, determined to prove that they could do things just as well as the so called higher classes, I argued with my father. He threatened to disown me, I called him a coward and a bad trader, a weakling and a poor father. I left without saying goodbye.
We traveled up deeper than most hunters, seeking a truly impressive beast, a true show of skill and strength. I kept the thicker furs, and they didn't seem to mind, knowing that if I fell, they would be in far harsher trouble than I if one of them had. It was perhaps an omen. As we reached the pass into the mountains, I was seperated from the group in a violent blizzard, blinded and driven across the snow by the winds. Knowing I could not return without supplies, I began to climb the nearest one, looking out across the snow for signs of their camp at night. In the morning, I was tired, and cold, and was sure that the next day would bring their appearance. It didn't. I slept to the sounds of my rumbling stomach.
I awoke siezed by a fierce urge, perhaps driven by a dream I wish I could remember, or perhaps just the effects of exposure. I would climb this mountain, or die trying. I would rise to the top of the pyramid, and, grasping the sun, return home with it in my grasp. I began to climb. My spear broke as I used it to lever a rock out for a handhold. I cast it aside. The arrows made a nice fire, when as night fell, I lit my furs on fire and strung them across the bow for light. I ignored the blood on my hands and the grit in teeth, and reached the peak in what I assume was record time. I screamed at the sky, infuriated at having to wait for the sun to return, that I might bring it back home in a sack to shine the way for my family and friends. In return, he appeared, and laughed at me.
Out of the sparkling sky came fire, a glorious burning man, with arms of gold and eyes of diamond. He spoke to me in a language I still have not found, but somehow understood. With a sweep of his hand, he drew my eyes out over the desolate landscape, where my home lay, small and far away. My vision leapt beyond that, and I saw towers and ruins, the pale and the dark, the lands of the dead and the ever-changing landscape of the wyld, and I heard the awesome words of the Sun. He already was shining the way, but some had turned for the dubious pleasure of the night and the dark, and had forgotten how to see. But I would hold a piece of the sun in my hand, if I searched long and hard enough... My vision flew onwards, and I saw the world in the palm of a great hand, which closed about it in a fist, shaking the servants of inquity from their towers into the hands of justice. My head whirled, and my heart rose as if out of my chest, and I awoke on a bed of fur, spread out on bare rock. A person stood, wearing a mask and cloth of gold, concealing their form and face.
They welcomed me into the world again, and offered a hot broth. I accepted gratefully, and listened as he or she, I never did find out which, spoke in an even voice and told me who he was, and why she was there. It was a story of those who tired of oppression, who sought out wisdom and found the truth, long hidden by the passage of time. A truth that said that once, heroes had strove for the good of all, that their light shone not as arrows from the sky, but a gentle warmth, yet terrible for the wicked. And these would return, and that they were returning even now. I believe I asked if he was one, but she laughed, and shook his head.
That was how I met my first of the Illuminated Circle. We prefer not to be called cultists, you see. It just sounds bad. Driven, like I was, by a vision, she had come not to make sure that I did not perish in the snows, but simply so that I would not be too confused upon my journey, to wherever I had meant to go. I asked of the vision, and the heroes, and how I was to help, and I was gifted with my first lesson in the art of being truly pure under the stars. This was followed by another, in the hollow of an ice cavern, and another, until I the state of the world, and of those who sought to improve it. Of the importance of finding the heroes, and how to know them when I saw them. The signs of righteousness that burned on their vow, of the cleaving golden blades and the firey arrows of justice, the tongues that cut like blades, making the unworthy bleed shame, and the great feats of magic and lore. I learned how to defend myself and others with my new abilities, and command the respect of those who would listen only to strength. I learned how to do these things, and others, with the help of the holy sutras of the circle, for which I learned the grammar of high realm.
After a time, I learned of others like me, who did not yet know of their destiny, did not yet know of their duties to the world, and the world's in return. So I set out in search, walking the roads and the rivers, thinking of what I might say to these great beings, of how they might act, of the things we might accomplish acting in concert. I struck down bandits and helped to heal the sick, I trained my body and gathered items to aid me, having long since spent what money I had been given. And now, I have found them. They are not many, but perhaps among us, there is the potential to reach out into the sky, and shake the world.
<b>Mentor</b>
The Sidereal mentor is known as Seven Seasons Turned, and habitually wore cloth of gold and the mask. He or she trained Toshido by fabricating secret sutras, and sessions of varying tasks meant to enlighten. It was not enough to be given the answer, one must seek it. He or she did not introduce Toshido to other Solars, but did give a little of what to expect.
<b>Plot Hooks</b>
