Name: Deimos
Gender: Male
Rank: Trainee (He hasn't been assigned a position among the remaining males yet)
Race: Claymore
Type: Offensive
Alignment: Neutral
Likes: Fire
Dislikes: Beer, wine, vodka, anything to do with alcohol
Personality: Narrow-minded to the point of being a fanatic yet conceals his arrogance with a calm demeanor. Is quiet. Believes in nothing but his own abilities, which slows down his inevitable awakening. For now. A consequence of this a tendency to abandon his team-mates during battle and push almost to his limits. He doesn't make friends easily among his comrades. Resents humans. Contrary to his personality, he is lonely.
Special Skill: Ignition of Ankh. The exhalation of a highly oxyginated mixture. Three conditions should be met for this skill to be optimal. First, the enemy must have a tough enough skin that sparks are possible. Second, he must cut his open his palm. (Internal wounds don't meet this condition since the skin isn't broken.) Third, Deimos needs to use all the air in one of his lungs.
Using his yoma energy to channel his breath down his bloodstream, it escapes as an expansive mist from the open wound, an inflammable compound instilled with his yoma energy. This gaseous mixture wreathes his blade for a short period of time before dissipating. A typical move is to stick the blade in and cause an explosion.
Two disadvantages to using this skill is a need to strike at once before the mixture becomes impotent, a need to attack at close range, and the number of times--two--this skill can be used. Aftereffects of using this skill include oxygen deprivation and a temporary loss of motor control.
In other words, Deimos becomes extremely weakened and easy to attack.
Appearance: Since people are bandying pictures about...

His appearance is whatever male claymores were supposed to look like. (I'm assuming white-bleached hair and silver eyes, slim in uniform, armor, and claymore over his shoulder.) A distinguishing trait is his hair and a fondness for heavy winter cloaks dyed the sick purple color of yoma blood.
History: Deimos hates alcohol. His father was a merchant, killed by a yoma at a tavern up North while promoting the latest products of his distillery. Then a fire razed his town to the ground. To make matters worse, his mother became so traumatized by the death of her husband that she chose to sever Deimos from her.
That's when the organization picked him up. Deimos was nine then. Now he is sixteen.
He buried himself in fanatical training for the single purpose of all claymores: kill yoma. All else is useless mental baggage, such as the past. The recent decision of the organization to begin using female claymores, however, and the awakening of male claymores, has put Deimos in a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation. Suspicion and mistrust have increased for the male warriors. Sensing that the transition years will not go well, he is determined to hold himself back from the inevitable awakening to fulfill his intended purpose. To prove that male claymores are not inferior to the new female types.
Deimos is yet undecided whether he will choose to continue living when he awakens or send his black card.
Misc: any person to offer him beer will end up headfirst through the lid of a winecask.
Past Story Excerpt~
Seventh Year
Deimos snuck into the kitchen in the cold hours of morning. A flicker of dawn lit the gloom. Bedraggled, but not the least bit sleepy, he warmed his hands by the ember glow of the stone oven. The gleam in his blue eyes reflected thoughts of forts, armies, and snowballs.
Winter was a season for war.
He startled in his nightclothes when a loud splat bounced off the tiny kitchen window. A muffled voice came through the frosted glass, and he recognized its owner from the childish malice lurking under the words.
"Out you pop, yellow hedgehog!"
Bloody hell. It's that damned Iapto!
Deimos ran up the stairs to his small bedroom without a second's thought for his mother's much needed sleep. The planking creaked underfoot. He threw off his nightclothes and randomly put on boots, faded trousers, and a warm tunic over his long underwear. He itched, but his skin had long grown used to wool. To cap it off he wrapped on a thick scarf in his favorite red-and-black checker pattern.
He paused in his rush by the kitchen on the way downstairs. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed a cold sausage from yesterday's leftovers on the table. Deimos broke his fast, all the while unlatching the door and muttering between mouthfuls, "My warrior name is Demon! Why the blazes does he keep calling me hedgehog?!"
"Hedgehog!" Iapto cried, loud enough to wake the town. "Hedgehooog! Come out and play, pricklypuss!"
Deimos devoured the sausage.
Opening the door to the chill winds, he shouted: "Don't make fun of my hair, you--"
Splat.
Something mushy yet frozen as ice smacked against his face.
Fury and shame seized his muscles. Deimos fell flat on his butt. Victorious laughter reddened his ears.
Death and buggery! That Iapto got him cold!
Yes, winter is a season for war.
Ninth Year
War games were fine to while away the passage of time, as were such things like school and helping out in the family shop, but Deimos could no longer hold off his impatience.
Two years and not a word apart from infrequent letters. Why?
"Father's been gone too long." He shook his mother's knee, looked up at an angelic face strained by the years, framed with blond curls tied back in a ponytail. They huddled in the kitchen, the oven doubling as a fireplace. "Is...is he even coming back, mother?"
"He's coming back."
Deimos shook his head. "When?"
"When he's brokered a deal for someone to expand the distillery. He's further up North now, past Pieta." She closed her eyes then pinched the bridge of her nose. "We can't live on stocking the taverns and inns for long. We're almost out of yeast and malt, and there aren't any supplies coming in from the south."
He didn't appreciate her frank truthfulness. "When?!"
"Deimos." His mother opened her eyes. "Your father is trying his best. Learn to give him a bit more time. We all need a little more time. The yoma--"
She cut herself off.
Deimos understood that there are some things adults will not talk about. He knew a little of trade. And bandits. And ambushes. People talked over children's heads, but often under the assumption they paid only the slightest of attention to such boring doings. If he kept quiet, someone at some point would run through the rumors.
Yoma. Horrible monsters. Creatures so ancient that nobody knew where they came from or why they liked to murder people and eat them.
The thought that surfaced in his head caused an electric shiver down his arms. What if--
No. He wouldn't think of that. Deimos studied his mother's face and saw the worry there.
He wouldn't think of that at all.
* * *
The message came on a cold morning day. Just like the day he buried Iapto under his own fort.
His mother accepted the fact with a calmness that proved she'd gone into shock. From his vantage point behind his mother's skirt, the messenger at the door looked grim himself, bloodied and bruised in torn armor.
A yoma massacred tavern-goers one night. The northern town's militia overwhelmed the beast, but not before suffering casualities on the border of attrition.
Fifty guardia dead. None of the people inside the tavern survived. And one of them had been Deimos' father.
* * *
The fire happened after he cried himself to sleep.
Deimos awoke. The smell of smoke wracked his lungs with pain.
His first thoughts leapt to the wellbeing of his surviving kin.
"Mother!"
He tumbled out of bed. Strange. His mind was clear, almost empty but for the one purpose foremost in his head.
Smoke clouded up from under the windowsill and from gaps in the walls. Deimos coughed until his eyes blurred and he couldn't make out the wood grains of the floor any longer. Got to get out of here. Get mother.
The fire. Where? He heard the flames crackling and the growing roar of a blaze. The sound froze him. Purpose escaped him. The beginnings of panic set in.
Not the kitchen. It can't be the stove. Even in grief he'd automatically banked the charcoal from marked habit.
Deimos flinched when he heard a rafter give way somewhere. Below? Or the cellars, where the alcohol was kept?
The alcohol--
"Damn."
His mother pounded on the bedroom door. "Deimos!"
* * *
By the time they escaped outside, half-blind and lungs pierced with coughs, the entire front and side of the house lit the night, a fiery inferno that licked up any flammable material, melted the snow, and dulled the stones black with cinders and ash.
Theirs wasn't the only house afire.
Townsfolk gathered in the square nearby, a clustered mass of confusion and bewilderment. They shirked at the kiss of the flames, the heat, the loss of all their belongings and livelihood.
Both of them joined the people, drawn in by the instinctive reaction common to many in a time of disaster. Hunker down or flee.
Deimos clutched his mother around the waist and buried his head in her nightgown. He took comfort in the fact she still had the strength to stand. He blinked back tears. Father's gone, but mother's here. He'd be lying if he thought he didn't need father, but now, right now--
Murmured voices conversed all around him, silhouettes cast in hellish light.
"How did it spread so fast?"
"Smell that? That's oil. And look at the smoke, it's too dark and thick. T'aint a natural fire."
"Arson!"
Silence. Then, an old, weary voice:
"First we get word Harald is murdered during his trade mission. Then this fire. With all this, it's obvious we can no longer hold the title for producing the best ice wine of the country. We lost."
Deimos clung tighter to his mother.
* * *
-----
How's that?
EDIT:
It looks alright but I think we were meant to display a short role play for your characters pasts.
Good idea. I'll write one up.
I have a tendency to be minimalist and short on descriptions. Is that okay?
EDIT: fixed special skill. Fixing past history next.
Last edited by Saikudoh; 08-27-2007 at 10:01 AM.
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