In a cataclysm known as the Nightfall, the worlds were almost completely destroyed by a harrowing surge of darkness.
In the shadows of the ensuing chaos a new group has taken shape. Led by an Aegyl named Kalos, the 11th Hour touts an esoteric knowledge of how to combat the darkness and restore the worlds. They might be the worlds’ best chance at survival; but nobody really knows enough about them to confirm or deny their claims.
On the brink of collapse, the universe holds its breath in anticipation. Of restoration? Of destruction? It is up to individuals like yourself to decide.
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What was the inspiration for them / do they embody a particular feeling or emotion? Miller, I feel, has a strong sense of duty about him, owing to his history in knightly culture. Despite that, he is a character founded on guilt and endurance. Specifically, he is inspired by the F. Scott Fitzgerald quote “So he tasted the deep pain that is reserved only for the strong, just as he had tasted for a little while the deep happiness.”
Name: Miller Darkthorne
Nickname: None
Age: 20
Gender: Male
Species:Human
Being Type: Somebody
Position: Neutral, Evil tendencies
Appearance: Miller is a tall man, with pale skin and dark, curly hair. He grows out a short, stubbly beard to hide his chin and elongate his facial features. His eyes are the green of oxidized copper, sitting atop two sleepy bags. He is just on the muscular side of moderately fit, though he has a bit of a soft stomach. Miller’s hands are gently touched with small, white scars. He has charming, if bedraggled, features; reminiscent of a happy old dog. He moves, most often, with the gentlest of intents, slowly but purposefully. Miller dresses well, usually in dark clothing with extra layers, but one could occasionally see a scuff or stain that has escaped his attention.
History: Miller Darkthorne was raised by a young woman in a crowded, dirty town called Sweetwater. Fatherless, he worked alongside his mother to support his small family, often tending farms and restocking local shops. Sometimes, while working the fields, Miller would find discarded and battered objects; broken blades, helmets, and other relics of half-forgotten battles. He would sell these, for what little coin they were worth. Those were the good days.
The true king of the realm had died shortly before, and his son was much too young to rule. Taking advantage of circumstance, Goltanna, opposed by Duke Larg, fought for the position of regent ruler, engaging in assassinations and total warfare. They became the face of the war; two lions, one stark white, the other pitch black, vying for control. Miller became a dog of war at the age of sixteen, hoping to get his mother funded while he himself was away. He joined a troop of Nanten, the knights of Duke Goltanna, and marched with them far to the north of his home, to Hellion’s Keep; a ravaged stone building on the coast of a grand lake. There, they were stationed as lookouts, tasked to relay any information on the Hokuten, the rivalling knights who served Duke Larg. Miller would cycle out during the spring and return to Sweetwater. While home, he worked with relief groups, taking menial work like forging nails and cutting lumber. Life was rough, but rewarding, and Miller wore the Red Lion of his Duke proudly.
Years passed like this. Stationed at Hellion’s Keep during his nineteenth winter, Miller began to question his loyalty. He had heard dark tales from other lookouts who cycled in, and began to question the leadership of Goltanna. His faith was shaken as he heard of more war-time atrocities. The darkness of doubt slowly crept in, like the bitter chill of winter, unable to be shaken. Miller rallied the other fearful soldiers, forgetting responsibility and honor in the process. Together, they planned to flee Hellion’s Keep, taking a boat across the lake. They would then take their separate ways. The execution of the plan was less than ideal; or successful, for that matter. Too many weary soldiers had caught wind of the plan, and the little rowboat wobbled with nine bodies inside.
A gale picked up, twisting the dark sky into a pit of warm inkiness. The pit grew, steadily absorbing the clouds. The snow drifted in reverse, floating directly to the hole in the sky, the trees bowed, creaking with agony. The men in the boat screamed, hearts racing as they stared with disbelief. Miller alone stood, staring down the darkness as it swallowed the stone tower they had fled moments before. Icy waves crashed, the vessel overturned, and nine souls toppled into the lake, weighed down by their armor. No longer soldiers, the men struggled with clasps and knots, the fear of children bright in their eyes as they watched their lungs’ air bubble to the surface. Miller’s mind raced, absorbed with the thought that he had doomed these men. Darkness rose from the depths, reaching up and out, devouring the poor souls before his eyes. Black ink clouded Miller’s vision as his last whim escaped his lips, and he felt no longer. No wetness, no cold sting, and no hope.
It was a long time before Miller awoke. He opened his eyes, but only saw darkness. Cold flagstones lay beneath him, dry as a bone. He stood, and light slowly crept back. Fine lines of purple broke apart clouds, illuminating the world around him. Miller could see buildings, many ruined and abandoned, others with firelight vigils. All was bathed in the colors of shadow. Black creatures flickered in and out of view, around corners and behind walls. Darkness was abound.
Shrouded in the uncertainty of his heart, Miller drifted in this ruined civilization, alone with his guilt. Slowly, he learned of this new world and regained purpose, picking up word of mouth from similarly wayward souls. The day that marked his twentieth year especially brought cheer; a melancholy feeling in truth, as he remembered the meager celebrations he was thrown in Sweetwater. Perhaps, one day, he would reunite with his family. One day, hopefully, he could shrug of this feeling, and forget the stares of the men in the lake.
Current Primary Objective: Find some sort of absolution and purpose in this new world.
Learning type: Kinesthetic. While it’s easy for Miller to form ideas in his head, most of his learning is in theory. He relishes actual physical practice of subjects, as it lets him put form to his knowledge. Book smarts come easily to him, although he is much more enthusiastic about abstract subjects, testing the borders of what ‘we’ know. Often, his work is haphazardly thrown together, covered in shortcuts that make sense in his head. It is difficult to explain things without hand motions.
Personality: Miller entertains the idea of foreign, removed enemies, but loses his countenance when the threat is closer to home. He is reserved around new people, but incredibly enthusiastic when he knows someone well. He thrives on the positive reactions of others. He is prepared to make tough decisions, and the thrill of such choices is familiar to him. Miller maintains a short personal code, which contrasts against the stories he heard during his service. Despite his martyr-esque nature, Miller is relatively quick to fall under pressure; if his life is in danger, it is likely that Miller will take the easy way out. Living in a world of war has taken a toll on him, and his resting state is one of crestfallen nature.
Home World: Ancient Ivalice
Natural Affinities/Abilities/Skills:
Craterize – (Gravity Spell) – Miller casts his hand out at a foe, dropping it sharply towards the ground. He coaxes the forces of gravity in a small area, approximately a yard in diameter, crushing matter within their reach. Fragile objects are easily destroyed or bent out of shape, and creatures suffer a modest amount of damage as their frames are wrenched out of shape. This is a short range spell, reaching a maximum of thirty feet away.
Blade Gambits – (Skill) – Small tricks and magical cantrips. Miller can perform minor actions with his weapons and his gravity affinity. For example, locking a blade in a scabbard, resisting a disarming, or summoning a weapon from a small distance.
Ogre Grip – (Trait) – Miller has, through a combination of genetics, training, and gravity magic, the ability to wield larger weapons than an average human. Heavy weapons become deft tools in his hands, and cumbersome utilities no longer throw Miller of balance. This does not affect speed of use.
Limitations/Drawbacks:
-Miller is a driven soul, but he is thoroughly out of shape. He can operate rather well in physical situations, but finds that he tires rather quickly.
-Under most circumstances Miller is easily cowed, but he can find his resolve in a defiant mindset when he feels cheated or belittled.
-Miller takes time to find the right words to convey what he has to say, often speaking in ambiguous half-truths. This, however, comes with some thinking time. He will occasionally drop out of a conversation to find the proper response.
-Miller has a questionable dependency on his negative emotions to force him into action, often relying on guilt or anger to spur him into action.
Passive: Heartborn Lure
Weapon:Bastard Sword – Miller’s weapon while on-duty in Hellion’s Keep, dragged through when he crossed worlds. It bears a four-foot blade, with a bronzed and leather wrapped hilt. Has notable reach and destructive potential, and the weight to go with it. Typically chosen for its versatility, but best used with two hands.
Role Playing Sample: Snow buffeted the cobbled walls of the Keep, and bitter air seeped in between the flagstones. A shameful fire burned in the grate on the far side of the room, and Miller, wrapped in a woolen blanket, studied his book intently. The mechanics of a siege engine seemed like a reasonable choice for a child of war, but the reading was mundane; geometry and physics. Couldn’t they send a kingly biography, or the journal of one of those wizards for once? With a sigh, Miller resigned himself to find something to eat, though the worm-ridden bread in the reserves was less than appetizing. He stood, shedding the blanket and moving to the door. A mangy brown cat, one of the many that stalked the keep for mice, yowled and approached Miller. It rubbed against his leg, leaving a tuft of dull fur in the cuff of Miller’s boot. He groaned, and gave the poor thing a pat on the head before giving the oaken door a shove and exiting.
The wind burrowed through Miller’s cloak, and chilled him to the bone. Flakes of snow caught on to the fabric of his hood as he walked across the elevated path to the main tower. Miller took a moment to scan the horizon, which was all but invisible in the wintry gale. The great pines swayed and bent, but betrayed no trace of any brigands or Hokuten knights. Relieved, Miller hurried along the ice caked stones.
Olric was inside, and like-mindedly, tended the stockpile, removing a few loaves of bread and dried meats. He portioned off enough for himself and gave the rest to Miller as he approached. Miller mumbled a small “Thank you,” and leaned into a chair. Olric took the seat across from him, grim faced and gnawing on the hard rind of the bread.
“They found more bodies strung up outside Sweetwater, you know,” Olric said, his gruff voice the only noise against the wind. “About half a dozen this time. Ronny said one of’em was a lady ‘bout your mother’s age.” He looked up at Miller. “I’m sure it wasn’t her, but I thought you should know.”
Miller grimaced, a half chewed strip of beef in his clenched jaw. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing out snow and ice. “We should leave, you know. Everyone in our cycle thinks so. We could all get out of here, return home, see our families, and nobody would rat us out. The next cycle would just come in to an empty coop.” An oil lantern in the corner of the room flickered, and sputtered out, the light behind Olric dying suddenly. “You should really consider it. This isn’t just a plan anymore; we have ways of making it happen. Being a traitor to Goltanna is so preferable to being at the mercy of Larg’s dogs.” Miller stood, and noticed uncertainty in Olric’s eyes, hidden in the mess of orange hair he had on his head. Deep inside, Miller knew, was the image of his daughter Sofia. Olric had only mentioned her twice, but everyone in Hellion’s had loved ones to return to. Everyone memorized who they were, so that, if a fellow soldier didn’t return home, one of his brothers could deliver the news.
Finding A Haven Miller finds his way into the Underground after a purgatory period after his arrival. He finds quiet and seclusion in here, hiding away from the sorrow above. Miller runs in to Harukaka, and takes his next steps very cautiously...
To The Rescue! Miller arrives at the scene of another collapsed building; this time, at the ruinous station. Fellow good souls began extracting those trapped in the wreckage. Heartless attack, and the volunteers fight back to defend the victims.
Underground Maze Miller is, again, interrupted by a strange guest in the Underground named Oswald. The two talk about different worlds; those now consumed, and the one in which they now live. Miller begins to come to terms with what is happening.
