Post by Ψiioniic Gearcore on Aug 15, 2011 13:19:29 GMT -10
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Psiioniic Gearcore
THII2 II2 EVERY 2HADE OF WRONG.
THE ROLEPLAYER.
Y'KNOW FROLIICKING IIN THE LAKE
AND 2HIIT TOGETHER?! [/center]
AGE Olllld
YEARS ROLEPLAYING 8 years
OTHER CHARACTERS Sollux Captor, Orphaner Dualscar
CONTACT ME BY PM, or Steam
SECRET CODE: AIM FOR ZE HEAD
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NICKNAMES They were once Psi, GC, and a number of other playful quips—but as said, it is only Helmsman now
AGE 17 sweeps
OCCUPATION There is only one real aspect of his life now: acting as the Helmsman of the Empress’ ship. The tendrils of her ship attach to him, leech off of his psychic energy, and are used to make it the fastest, deadliest ship in all of Medius. There is no escape for him, no chance of helping his old friends. When the time comes…or, if the time comes, his final duty will be to directly disobey the Empress' fleet to give his friends a chance against them; he is certain he will perish when the time comes, but he is more than prepared for his suffering to end.
ANYTHING ELSE Unlike canon, I will be saying that he is allowed off of her ship and around the encampment, though can be strictly monitored/controlled by the tendrils more-or-less sewn into his skull. [/SIZE]
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His hair is a dark, raven black that sits flat in the back, before sharply curving out into angular protrusions at the side. His bangs are equally sharp, and brushed to one side. As a psychic, it Is imparitive to keep hair out of his eyes—the headband he wears helps with this.
FACE
Gearcore’s face is thin and gaunt, nowadays, composed largely of angular bones with the skin stretched tightly over. When off of the Empress’ ships, not strapped in and his eyes shoved wide open, his eyelids seem to constantly droop—with the bags under his eyes, it gives him the appearance of constant exhaustion (which truly isn’t far from the truth. His heterochromatic eyes seem duller than once before as well, his nasobodial crease darkened. Sweeps spent only able to express pain and rage have marked him as such—it has become near impossible for the troll to smile, and the creases near his lips certainly show the anguish of his experience
Simply put, the man’s face shows the terror the sweeps have plagued on him that his words cannot.
BODY
Very fit—muscular and tall, he once stood with a proud stance and an intimidating presence.
Of course, sweeps spent trapped in the Empress ship have changed things. While it is quite the workout struggling within her tendrils, he has never been able to hold himself in the same way, and highly doubts that he ever will again. His body feels bent to him, stretched awkwardly and heavier. The proud stance now a thing of the past, he constantly slouches.
STYLE
His wardrobe is understandably limited—one yellow suit, with only a few renditions. The one constant are the pink tendrils sewn into his skull, belonging to the Empress. They begin from beneath his hair-line all around the crown of his head and stretch inward, stopping either just above his eyes or at the corners. They are especially thick near both temples.
ANYTHING ELSE The tendrils act as a form of one-way communication--the Empress' Royal Fleet members can communicate things to his mind, and hurt him through it, but they cannot take anything back. She, nor anyone else, can molest his mind--psychic abilities or none. He is the highest level of psionic, capable of seeing through all psychic illusions and tricks...skills that once dearly helped the revolutionists. No assassin could cloak, nor attempt to influence another revolutionary while he was around.[/SIZE]
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♊ Duality: The world is made up of doubles—everything has a double, an opposite side that, while on first glance seem in contrast, but are nearly always complimentary. The hemospectrum itself is set up as opposites, but is, in all actuality, a circle. Such concepts fascinate him—the philosophy of it is one that he dearly enjoys pondering.
♊ Sufferer & his Revolution They changed everything for him—gave his life meaning, gave him something to fight for. To him, Sufferer is the most noble being the world has ever seen; his message the only truth. There is nothing Gearcore cares more about, than seeing the revolution succeed.
♊ Bees Fascinating creatures, really—the way their societies work, what they can accomplish.
♊ Technology/Mechanical things Or rather, once upon a time, his hobbies largely revolved around examining technological and mechanical things. Computers, machines—all these things fascinated him to the point of near obsession. Any time the rebels came upon any strange technology, he was always the first to analyze them and understand them.
♊ Hope With all rage, pain, and suffering he now feels, hope is the only positive feeling he has left. Even after all of the sweeps, he has never given up hope that Sufferer will win his fight one day. It’s all he really has left.
♊ His memories With so little left in his life that he can enjoy, Gearcore clings desperately to his fond memories with Sufferer and the rebels. When things seem at their worst, he need only close his eyes and remember how wonderful things had been.
♊ Sports: Now more than ever, Gearcore dearly misses games and sports—being athletic with his friends, challenging them to friendly games…they are the sorts of memories he cherishes.
♊ Using his psychic powers for the good of others: At first, Gearcore’s powers were used only for manuel slave labor, used simply as a beast of burden. After meeting Sufferer, he learned that his powers were more than that—what he could accomplish with them, how many people he could help.
DISLIKES
♊ Highblood Oppressors: Before his capture, they were what he fought against—against senseless oppression, against those who saw themselves entitled to power they didn’t deserve.
♊ The Empress: The scourge of all trolls, a viper and the most evil being he has ever known—forget fighting the Highblood, he wishes he could tell the rebels. He has not spoken to her for some time, but he will never forget the first time he spoke with her.
♊ His lack of feeling: One of the things Gearcore most cherished about meeting Sufferer and the trolls who would eventually be his closest friends was how they made him feel—the happiness and camaraderie he spent in their presence made all of the suffering before meeting them obsolete. Everything was alive, and while harrowing, meaningful. That’s gone now.
♊ Slavery: It is the greatest injustice in the world, that slavery is allowed to exist. That he is one magnifies the hatred of it—no one should ever suffer at another’s hands, should be forced to give up their life, their identity, everything that they are because another says that they should.
♊ Exploitation of his powers: He never wanted his powers, never wanted to use them in the first place—that he is forced to use them for things that hurt him makes it all the more insufferable.
♊ Sweet Things: Not that he receives many anymore, but sweet things always made him sick when he was with the rebels.
♊ His solitude: As aforementioned, after finally knowing what it was like to have true friends, it is completely miserable to be only kept company by his screams of anguish, and the Empress’ occasional mocking company.
♊ Odd numbers: He counts by evens, and evens only.
♊ Touching: He has been tortured for years; well expecting every physical sensation to lead to pain. Inside the Empress’ tendrils, constantly shocked and jabbed by them to force him into working harder, even bumping into other’s causes him great distress.
HOBBIES
♊ None, anymore: Gearcore is a slave—there is nothing he can do anymore. When he is allowed off of the Empress’ ship, there is no one he can go do, nothing he can do. He usually just uses the time to explore around—if that can be considered a hobby, than that is all he has left.
HABITS
♊ Speaks in a lisp
♊ Winces when touched
♊ Doesn’t look at people when they talk to him
FEARS
♊ Any of his old friends learning what he has become: He would rather they think him dead, than know that he has been forced to become a slave again
♊ The rebels failing: Nothing in the world terrifies Gearcore more—he knows that he is suffering now for a reason, that one day it will all be better. The thought that it might have been for nothing…no, no that can’t be.
♊ Sufferer being captured: He knows well what the Highblood’s will do to his old friend if they ever find him; he is haunted by nightmares of them torturing him.
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PERSONALITY
To understand who Gearcore is now, we must first look back on who he was when he was with the rebels.
He would tell you that the rebels, namely Sufferer, gave him the courage to embrace his identity and break the shackles the oppression had put on his person.
With their help, Gearcore ceased being the quiet, resigned slave, and grew to his full potential. Though still an introverted man, their support and constant camaraderie quieted the fears and the doubts the slavers had instilled in him. He was allowed, no, encouraged to say whatever he felt, and to be what he wanted. Sarcastic jokes were treated with laughs and applause, rather than a whipping post. He was thanked for using his powers, rather than ordered and forced to do so. When other’s smiled at him, he grew to enjoy the feeling of his own lips parting into a warm smile back.
Simply put, no matter the poverty they faced and the hard lives they faced, Gearcore was an incredibly happy troll with them. While he had the habit of going through mood swings and occasionally getting snippy with his comrades, any argument or disagreement could be quickly resolved. They were family to him, and he embraced them all openly.
Sufferer gave him hope, a belief, and something worthwhile, for the first time in his life. Hell, Sufferer gave him a self-worth he didn’t even know possible. He wasn’t a slave, but a valued team-mate and friend. His opinion was always of value, his life of concern—the solitude of his slave days were but a thing of the past. Rare was it that he ever left the sides of those in Sufferer’s inner-circle; rare was it that he ever wanted to. To have hope for a better future…a world where no troll had hatched authority over any other, and no troll would be culled for their blood, it all made him feel as though he finally had a reason to be alive. To know that Sufferer would have died without Dolorosa’s intervention—that the bravest troll he had ever known, the one troll who had seen in him a worth beyond his psychic powers—made him bristle. He would have done anything to help the cause… which leads us to the troll he is today.
Gone is everything pleasant in his life—his lips have not known a single smile for nearly five sweeps. After he was caught by the Empress, everything changed.
At first, he fought back. He screamed when she extended his life, cooed at him how useful his powers were. He shouted that he wasn’t a slave, believed with all of his heart that she would never be able to change him, that he would sooner die than help her.
But that was before he’d been trapped in those tendrils for sweeps, tortured constantly within them, and only given mild relief when doing what she wanted.
No, all of the joy he had known is long gone. He catches fleeting glances of it when he loses himself in his memories, but it is bitter, cold pain when he opens them again, to only remember that he is a slave.
Everything is dulled beyond the pain, the only feelings he can seem to recall having being rage, pain, and sorrow. Even with the physical torture aside, that of the mental is even worse. Simply being trapped, not knowing what’s happening in the world outside…whether or not Sufferer is alive, if any of the rebels are…it becomes hard to breathe, thinking of it all.
Since the zombies attacked, things have gotten slightly better. The Empress' fleet does not travel nearly as much, and he is often allowed, along with her other slaves, out onto land.
It is, however, a hollow freedom. With those tendrils always gripping into his mind, always able to contact him and cause him pain, it is not a true freedom. He is still alone, still under their control, and still their slave.
Not a glimmer of the self-confidence he had once cherished remains. He is, and now knows will always be, nothing more than a slave. His days of feeling worth were but a joke, a cruel card played by life to make his second round of slavery all the more painful. He has no worth beyond it, nothing he can ever fight for again. All he has left is the faint clutches of hope he still holds for Sufferer, that they might still succeed and make it so no troll ever suffers as he does now. It is too late for him, but the thought that he might have in some way helped in changing things for the future…well, that makes it all worth it.
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WELL, HE U2ED TWO BEAT ME IIN MOR2E CODE,
2O IIT2 PO22IIBLE. [/center]
PETS None
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HISTORY
Gearcore cannot remember much of his young life before his enslavement. If he closes his eyes and tries to focus, he can see brief memories—a large lusus holding him in one hand, a half-built hive, sleeping under a tarp in a small pool of slime as it was being built…
He assumes that he never finished the hive. Or perhaps he had, and he was simply out playing near his bee-hives; all he can remember is that he was outside when the slavers captured him. His lusus had always tried to be careful, moving them out far into the country-side, hoping that the effort of finding one psionic would be too much to send any formal troops to collect him. His lusus had been wrong.
Gearcore tried to fight back, but so unsteady with his powers as he was at a young age, he present very little challenge. They bound and gagged him before shoving him into a bag. All he could do is cry, and give a muffled scream as he heard his lusus’ final, pained cries in the distance.
Thus began Gearcore’s life as a slave.
He was shoved into a room with a number of other young wrigglers, told that they were property, that they would be culled if they tried to escape, that they didn’t have any lususes to go back to anyways, and they had to do what their masters told them from then on.
Most of the wrigglers, Gearcore included, were too scared to do much more than silently comply. Within the next week, they were all shipped off to different masters. Few words can explain the terror he felt during that time, the silent tears that wracked his frame when he tried to sleep, just praying that his lusus was okay, and would come to save him soon.
His lusus was dead, though. As were all of the other wriggler’s. He ended up on a large plantation, where he would work in heavy lifting due to his psychic powers. The work was grueling, his injuries plentiful. They worked him to points of psychic exhaustion that nearly left him comatose at the end of many days. As they tend to say, however, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and the terrible exertions did sharpen and acclimate his mind to the grueling labor.
No matter what time of the day or night, the slaves were closely monitored. While quiet talking was allowed, none of the slaves ever had much to say. It was a lonely, crippling environment for the boy. On occasion, one of the older trolls might take pity on him—offer him a pat on the head, a piece of bread—but for the most part, he was as ignored as any other slave. He was nothing but an object, and he soon came to see himself as such. He stopped crying, stop being scared, stopped feeling anything at all, really. The nights were all the same, his life just a constant stream of back-breaking working without meaning. He stayed there many sweeps—everything blurred together without meaning. He woke, worked, and slept. He was surrounded by other slaves, but completely alone. What he felt was minimal—mad, yearning, dismal…not a month went by that another of the younger slaves killed themselves. He would learn from an older slave that only one out of every ten young slaves survived to adulthood. As more days passed, he began to realize that he did not want to be that one.
One can never know what would have happened had Gearcore been kept as a slave much longer, thanks to the Sufferer’s interference. It had been another day working, moving a section of rock-slab away from the plantation when he heard the first screams and sounds of attack. His young heart raced, excited at the prospect of something new happening. The scraggly wriggler felt no fear as he ran back, climbing over one final ledge until he saw it—trolls in dark cloaks fighting against the guards, while others in similar cloaks shepherded the slaves away from the fight. He ran closer, utterly confused but enthralled, when he felt a hand grab his wrist—one of the guards plucked him up, and began shouting at him to use his powers to attack the people in cloaks. It then dawned on him that the cloaked figures were there to free them—and with the first smile he had had in sweeps, used his psionic abilities to pry the man’s hand from him, and slam him into the ground until he was dead. He stood over the body for a moment, paralyzed with a sudden fear. He was going to be whipped. He had disobeyed! Oh God, what had he done?!
But before he had time to linger on it, he felt another hand on his shoulder. One of the cloaked figures told him to follow the others. Scared witless, and still utterly certain that he was going to be punished for his insubordination, he followed her order. He followed the slaves and the cloaked figures leading them for a long while, until they eventually made it to a large encampment. This was how he would first meet the rebels.
Once there, they were given a meal and a place to sleep—and when night came about, the leader addressed them all. They were free of their oppression; free to do anything they wanted, and that they would help them to overcome their mental conditioning. They had to move camps, but when that was over, he would talk to every one of them.
Gearcore was petrified for his one on one talk with the leader. Although he didn’t wear shackles anymore, he was still a slave in mind—still worried for punishment, still resigned, still a mere cog in the system. The fear grew too much, of when the leader would speak to him, so Gearcore sought him out first. The other troll was older than him by a few sweeps, but he put on his toughest face and asked to speak to him. When they did, his fear quickly slipped away. The other addressed him not as a wriggler, nor as a slave, but as a troll of sound mind and credibility. He was kind. He listened—things no one had done for him since his lususes death. Sufferer mentioned that Gearcore would be more than welcome to join their movement. However, when the other mentioned that he had noticed Gearcore using psychic abilities, however, Gearcore’s face fell. Oh. So that was why he wanted him around. He just shrugged and said that he wasn’t very good at using them, and would probably not be a very good addition to the rebellion. What shocked him was that Sufferer didn’t care; he said that he would have treated Gearcore the exact same way, extended the same invitation, regardless of powers. His heart leapt—all his life, his worth had been measured by what he could do with his psychic powers. For this man to sit across from him, to imply that he was wanted for something more than his talents…well, it was a simple decision to stay with them.
However, the mentality was not so easily broken. He avoided most of the other revolutionaries for a long time, an introverted young boy ripe with conditioned fears and expectations. He was given a tent with which to sleep in, and there he spent much of his time, only darting out to eat, relieve himself, and occasionally go wandering around whatever countryside there were in by himself. He garnered some odd glances, but throughout it all, Sufferer remained a constant for him. The other always greeted him, stopped to speak to him, joked around with him—treated him like a real troll. Even if a number of their conversations ended in friendly debates, and him frequently calling the other an imbecile, he was quickly beginning to feel things he hadn’t known possible in his slavery.
The moment things all changed for him within the revolutionary group came during one dinner, with a number of the rebels sitting around a fire talking amongst themselves. Over the last few weeks, Gearcore had begun coercing himself to join them, usually lingering out around the sidelines and just listening in. That day, however, he was brought into the conversation when one of the members said something about how psychics creeped him out. Gearcore had always been reserved, never one to start conflicts, but he came to his own defense then—and the two soon began arguing. The rest of the fireside slowly quieted down to listen to them fight. Reaching the end of it, Gearcore had grown so frustrated with the other, that he simply used his psychic powers to pick up the other’s plate of potatoes and whip it into his face. Fear gripped him, the shackles of his oppression returning as he remembered what happened to disorderly slaves. But as the man pulled the plate back and wiped his face, he simply grinned and stated, “I suppose slap-stick humor might be one benefit of psionics”, and the rest of the camp burst out laughing. Instantly, the mood changed and the man clapped him on the back, and bid him to sit next to him. From there he was invited into the conversations around him, and they talked about the act with hearty laughs for the rest of the night. People called him a genius, said they’d wanted to shut him up like that for a long time—to feel so included, so a part of things, Gearcore had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t need to hide in his tent anymore.
True to the thought, he fully joined Sufferer’s cause in the sweep that followed, and continued speaking to the man on a daily basis. Although they bickered about menial things, it was always in good fun, and Gearcore came to completely trust the man. And in time, he would prove himself in battle along his side, throwing himself fully into every mission—each time they saved slaves, each time he saw the faces of the wrigglers whose situations he knew all too well, he could only smile. Sufferer had given him more than a home, friendship, even a family to call his own; he had given him a purpose, an identity, and a feeling of being important.
In time, the friendship between he, the Sufferer, and Sufferer’s closest friends grew. It wasn’t long until he was in the Sufferer’s inner-circle—it was an honor beyond words. With more earnestly and loyalty than he had ever known possible, he swore that he would dedicate his life the Sufferer’s cause, and do whatever it took to protect him.
Travelling with the rebels was grueling at times, to be certain—and certainly more than dangerous. They were ruthlessly hunted wherever they went, and barely managed to escape more than a few fights. But no matter what happened, no matter how many members their pursuers captured, Sufferer always found a way to free them. Or, almost always. Gearcore himself was captured once or twice, but he was easily capable of escaping with a bit of help from Sufferer.
For many a sweep this continued—only coming to an end at one particular fight. The little group had become notorious as the figureheads for the revolution—that the Sufferer had a powerful psionic at his side was news that everyone seemed to know. Everyone, including the Empress' fleet
They, with control over everything, sent a flurry of their forces to attack them; they were ambushed, with no chance to prepare for an attack. The battle persisted for some time, Gearcore himself making certain to stay directly next to Sufferer and the other two. He might have had a chance to escape with them, had he noticed a troll swinging a sword toward the Sufferer. So distracted was he in pushing the other away, that he had no time to defend the attack from behind him. A swift hit to the back of the head, and he was unconscious. When he awoke, he was in a locked, windowless cage. If the movement was anything to go by, they were on the ocean. Try as he might to break the cage apart with his psychic energy, it was too strong. He fell asleep again in the cage, still certain that he would find a way to escape.
When he awoke, however, he was shocked to find himself in a perplexing room—wooden walls covered in pink, pulsating tendrils, and half-submerged. His eyes flashed open and he attempted to move, startled to learn that he himself was held in place by the tendrils.
And then he saw her. The Empress herself among her royal fleet
They talked for a time—or rather, he shouted, and they spoke, ever patronizing him. They had taken note of his psychic abilities, and would be using him as a helmsman. His energy would be channeled into her ship through the tendrils writhing around his body, and he himself would steer the boat as they commanded. He laughed, stating that he would never do such a thing—never betray his friends and help an elitist whore and her brainless lackies. They then showed him what they could do to him, trapped like that. Like the tentacles of a thousand jellyfish, the tendrils zapped him—pain exploded across his chest and he tore his head back, screaming. The crew left, and the zapping continued periodically through the day, disallowing any sleep.
They royal crew came back the next day without the Empress, saying the same thing again—that he really couldn’t resist. He laughed once more, stating that he would sooner kill himself than allow them to have her way. Expecting such, a bargain was offered to him—one that he would not be able to refuse. Obey their every command, be their slave, and they nor any of her sea-dwelling nobility would hunt the Sufferer. They said to think about it, and give him decision at the fall of night, but he stopped them before she could go, agreeing to their deal. He had sworn to always protect him, and he was determined to do just that.
Gearcore became a slave again on that day. He was kept locked in that room, writhing against the tendrils and tortured by their stings. He had agreed to their plan, but he wasn’t going to do it without making some noise. He yelled at anyone when they came near, swore at them no matter how much they made the tendrils burn him, he would never succumb to them. He followed their orders, to be sure, but he was never civil.
When the days came, and he was alone in the room besides the always-moving tendrils, his resolve faltered. What was going to happen to him? Would he ever see the rebels again? Would they help him? Did they even know where they were? Oh God, were they all okay? The mental tortures were far worse than the physical, and he was certain she knew this.
The sweeps passed, and the passion with which he fought against them waned. Screams and profanity eventually turned to silent glares, slowly growing more and more resigned to his fate. There was nothing he could do—nothing but comply, strung up as he was. The strength and self-confidence he had felt faltered, until he could only feel sorry for himself. Worthless. That was what he was, completely and utterly worthless again. He was just a slave, and the sooner it all ended the better.
So when the time came that she decided to extend his life to match her own…well, he fought it tooth and nail, screaming as she did so. He wanted to die. He wanted it to end—but in good conscience, he could not kill himself, knowing that doing such would mean that the Sufferer would be hunted again. Even that he wasn’t sure of—maybe the Sufferer was already dead. He had no knowledge of the outside world, how was he to know at all?
He has no idea how much time passed like that. There were no days or nights down there—only a waking nightmare and fitful sleep marred by excruciatingly painful visions.
When he was one day released from the tendrils and brought onto deck with the rest of the Empress’ slaves one night, he could only feel shock and confusion. But from there, one of her generals informed them of the situation with the zombies—apparently they had been a problem for roughly five sweeps by that point. Gearcore could really only stare in awe, wondering if it was all some fitful hallucination. The royal crew, as such, would not be using the Empress' ship for a time, and that they were to go scavenging on the mainland to keep themselves useful. Just as Gearcore began playing with ideas of freedom, the general motioned towards his temple, mentioning the tendrils that could track them, send them messages, shock and potentially kill them if they tried to ever remove them. Gearcore felt his own head—there they were. He would later be horrified when he looked at them in a reflection.
Thus we are brought to the present.
Being among other trolls again is nothing short of harrowing. As if those sweeps with the rebels never existed, the slave mentality has firmly grasped him again, unable to touch, or even speak to anyone in the encampment. He absolutely despises himself for it, but can’t help but feel resigned to it all. When all is said and done, and the zombies are gone, he knows he will have any semblance of this freedom taken away again, and just be a slave again. For thousands and thousands of years.
It is a hard fact to swallow.
Despite it all, he still has his hope. It is the only thing left to cling to. Some moments, it feels as though it isn’t enough—he loses his resolve, slumps over, and simply cries, begging to be killed. His begs are never heeded, from a royal crew who knows how valuable his powers are. He tries to remain strong, especially nowadays with so many of those precious highbloods perishing from the zombie attacks, but so often it’s hard to think that there can be any reason for his living.
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Psiioniic Gearcore
THII2 II2 EVERY 2HADE OF WRONG.
THE ROLEPLAYER.
Y'KNOW FROLIICKING IIN THE LAKE
AND 2HIIT TOGETHER?! [/center]
AGE Olllld
YEARS ROLEPLAYING 8 years
OTHER CHARACTERS Sollux Captor, Orphaner Dualscar
CONTACT ME BY PM, or Steam
SECRET CODE: AIM FOR ZE HEAD
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THE CHARACTER.
GO. 2LEEP BADLY. ANY QUE2TIIONS,
HE2IITATE TWO CALL.
GO. 2LEEP BADLY. ANY QUE2TIIONS,
HE2IITATE TWO CALL.
NICKNAMES They were once Psi, GC, and a number of other playful quips—but as said, it is only Helmsman now
AGE 17 sweeps
OCCUPATION There is only one real aspect of his life now: acting as the Helmsman of the Empress’ ship. The tendrils of her ship attach to him, leech off of his psychic energy, and are used to make it the fastest, deadliest ship in all of Medius. There is no escape for him, no chance of helping his old friends. When the time comes…or, if the time comes, his final duty will be to directly disobey the Empress' fleet to give his friends a chance against them; he is certain he will perish when the time comes, but he is more than prepared for his suffering to end.
ANYTHING ELSE Unlike canon, I will be saying that he is allowed off of her ship and around the encampment, though can be strictly monitored/controlled by the tendrils more-or-less sewn into his skull. [/SIZE]
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THE LOOK2.
LOOK UP IIDIIOT IN THE DIICTIIONARY.
YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'LL FIIND?
LOOK UP IIDIIOT IN THE DIICTIIONARY.
YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'LL FIIND?
His hair is a dark, raven black that sits flat in the back, before sharply curving out into angular protrusions at the side. His bangs are equally sharp, and brushed to one side. As a psychic, it Is imparitive to keep hair out of his eyes—the headband he wears helps with this.
FACE
Gearcore’s face is thin and gaunt, nowadays, composed largely of angular bones with the skin stretched tightly over. When off of the Empress’ ships, not strapped in and his eyes shoved wide open, his eyelids seem to constantly droop—with the bags under his eyes, it gives him the appearance of constant exhaustion (which truly isn’t far from the truth. His heterochromatic eyes seem duller than once before as well, his nasobodial crease darkened. Sweeps spent only able to express pain and rage have marked him as such—it has become near impossible for the troll to smile, and the creases near his lips certainly show the anguish of his experience
Simply put, the man’s face shows the terror the sweeps have plagued on him that his words cannot.
BODY
Very fit—muscular and tall, he once stood with a proud stance and an intimidating presence.
Of course, sweeps spent trapped in the Empress ship have changed things. While it is quite the workout struggling within her tendrils, he has never been able to hold himself in the same way, and highly doubts that he ever will again. His body feels bent to him, stretched awkwardly and heavier. The proud stance now a thing of the past, he constantly slouches.
STYLE
His wardrobe is understandably limited—one yellow suit, with only a few renditions. The one constant are the pink tendrils sewn into his skull, belonging to the Empress. They begin from beneath his hair-line all around the crown of his head and stretch inward, stopping either just above his eyes or at the corners. They are especially thick near both temples.
ANYTHING ELSE The tendrils act as a form of one-way communication--the Empress' Royal Fleet members can communicate things to his mind, and hurt him through it, but they cannot take anything back. She, nor anyone else, can molest his mind--psychic abilities or none. He is the highest level of psionic, capable of seeing through all psychic illusions and tricks...skills that once dearly helped the revolutionists. No assassin could cloak, nor attempt to influence another revolutionary while he was around.[/SIZE]
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THE PER2ONALIITY.
II IINVENTED DIICE WHEN II WA2 A KID.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
II IINVENTED DIICE WHEN II WA2 A KID.
WHAT DO YOU DO?
♊ Duality: The world is made up of doubles—everything has a double, an opposite side that, while on first glance seem in contrast, but are nearly always complimentary. The hemospectrum itself is set up as opposites, but is, in all actuality, a circle. Such concepts fascinate him—the philosophy of it is one that he dearly enjoys pondering.
♊ Sufferer & his Revolution They changed everything for him—gave his life meaning, gave him something to fight for. To him, Sufferer is the most noble being the world has ever seen; his message the only truth. There is nothing Gearcore cares more about, than seeing the revolution succeed.
♊ Bees Fascinating creatures, really—the way their societies work, what they can accomplish.
♊ Technology/Mechanical things Or rather, once upon a time, his hobbies largely revolved around examining technological and mechanical things. Computers, machines—all these things fascinated him to the point of near obsession. Any time the rebels came upon any strange technology, he was always the first to analyze them and understand them.
♊ Hope With all rage, pain, and suffering he now feels, hope is the only positive feeling he has left. Even after all of the sweeps, he has never given up hope that Sufferer will win his fight one day. It’s all he really has left.
♊ His memories With so little left in his life that he can enjoy, Gearcore clings desperately to his fond memories with Sufferer and the rebels. When things seem at their worst, he need only close his eyes and remember how wonderful things had been.
♊ Sports: Now more than ever, Gearcore dearly misses games and sports—being athletic with his friends, challenging them to friendly games…they are the sorts of memories he cherishes.
♊ Using his psychic powers for the good of others: At first, Gearcore’s powers were used only for manuel slave labor, used simply as a beast of burden. After meeting Sufferer, he learned that his powers were more than that—what he could accomplish with them, how many people he could help.
DISLIKES
♊ Highblood Oppressors: Before his capture, they were what he fought against—against senseless oppression, against those who saw themselves entitled to power they didn’t deserve.
♊ The Empress: The scourge of all trolls, a viper and the most evil being he has ever known—forget fighting the Highblood, he wishes he could tell the rebels. He has not spoken to her for some time, but he will never forget the first time he spoke with her.
♊ His lack of feeling: One of the things Gearcore most cherished about meeting Sufferer and the trolls who would eventually be his closest friends was how they made him feel—the happiness and camaraderie he spent in their presence made all of the suffering before meeting them obsolete. Everything was alive, and while harrowing, meaningful. That’s gone now.
♊ Slavery: It is the greatest injustice in the world, that slavery is allowed to exist. That he is one magnifies the hatred of it—no one should ever suffer at another’s hands, should be forced to give up their life, their identity, everything that they are because another says that they should.
♊ Exploitation of his powers: He never wanted his powers, never wanted to use them in the first place—that he is forced to use them for things that hurt him makes it all the more insufferable.
♊ Sweet Things: Not that he receives many anymore, but sweet things always made him sick when he was with the rebels.
♊ His solitude: As aforementioned, after finally knowing what it was like to have true friends, it is completely miserable to be only kept company by his screams of anguish, and the Empress’ occasional mocking company.
♊ Odd numbers: He counts by evens, and evens only.
♊ Touching: He has been tortured for years; well expecting every physical sensation to lead to pain. Inside the Empress’ tendrils, constantly shocked and jabbed by them to force him into working harder, even bumping into other’s causes him great distress.
HOBBIES
♊ None, anymore: Gearcore is a slave—there is nothing he can do anymore. When he is allowed off of the Empress’ ship, there is no one he can go do, nothing he can do. He usually just uses the time to explore around—if that can be considered a hobby, than that is all he has left.
HABITS
♊ Speaks in a lisp
♊ Winces when touched
♊ Doesn’t look at people when they talk to him
FEARS
♊ Any of his old friends learning what he has become: He would rather they think him dead, than know that he has been forced to become a slave again
♊ The rebels failing: Nothing in the world terrifies Gearcore more—he knows that he is suffering now for a reason, that one day it will all be better. The thought that it might have been for nothing…no, no that can’t be.
♊ Sufferer being captured: He knows well what the Highblood’s will do to his old friend if they ever find him; he is haunted by nightmares of them torturing him.
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PERSONALITY
To understand who Gearcore is now, we must first look back on who he was when he was with the rebels.
He would tell you that the rebels, namely Sufferer, gave him the courage to embrace his identity and break the shackles the oppression had put on his person.
With their help, Gearcore ceased being the quiet, resigned slave, and grew to his full potential. Though still an introverted man, their support and constant camaraderie quieted the fears and the doubts the slavers had instilled in him. He was allowed, no, encouraged to say whatever he felt, and to be what he wanted. Sarcastic jokes were treated with laughs and applause, rather than a whipping post. He was thanked for using his powers, rather than ordered and forced to do so. When other’s smiled at him, he grew to enjoy the feeling of his own lips parting into a warm smile back.
Simply put, no matter the poverty they faced and the hard lives they faced, Gearcore was an incredibly happy troll with them. While he had the habit of going through mood swings and occasionally getting snippy with his comrades, any argument or disagreement could be quickly resolved. They were family to him, and he embraced them all openly.
Sufferer gave him hope, a belief, and something worthwhile, for the first time in his life. Hell, Sufferer gave him a self-worth he didn’t even know possible. He wasn’t a slave, but a valued team-mate and friend. His opinion was always of value, his life of concern—the solitude of his slave days were but a thing of the past. Rare was it that he ever left the sides of those in Sufferer’s inner-circle; rare was it that he ever wanted to. To have hope for a better future…a world where no troll had hatched authority over any other, and no troll would be culled for their blood, it all made him feel as though he finally had a reason to be alive. To know that Sufferer would have died without Dolorosa’s intervention—that the bravest troll he had ever known, the one troll who had seen in him a worth beyond his psychic powers—made him bristle. He would have done anything to help the cause… which leads us to the troll he is today.
Gone is everything pleasant in his life—his lips have not known a single smile for nearly five sweeps. After he was caught by the Empress, everything changed.
At first, he fought back. He screamed when she extended his life, cooed at him how useful his powers were. He shouted that he wasn’t a slave, believed with all of his heart that she would never be able to change him, that he would sooner die than help her.
But that was before he’d been trapped in those tendrils for sweeps, tortured constantly within them, and only given mild relief when doing what she wanted.
No, all of the joy he had known is long gone. He catches fleeting glances of it when he loses himself in his memories, but it is bitter, cold pain when he opens them again, to only remember that he is a slave.
Everything is dulled beyond the pain, the only feelings he can seem to recall having being rage, pain, and sorrow. Even with the physical torture aside, that of the mental is even worse. Simply being trapped, not knowing what’s happening in the world outside…whether or not Sufferer is alive, if any of the rebels are…it becomes hard to breathe, thinking of it all.
Since the zombies attacked, things have gotten slightly better. The Empress' fleet does not travel nearly as much, and he is often allowed, along with her other slaves, out onto land.
It is, however, a hollow freedom. With those tendrils always gripping into his mind, always able to contact him and cause him pain, it is not a true freedom. He is still alone, still under their control, and still their slave.
Not a glimmer of the self-confidence he had once cherished remains. He is, and now knows will always be, nothing more than a slave. His days of feeling worth were but a joke, a cruel card played by life to make his second round of slavery all the more painful. He has no worth beyond it, nothing he can ever fight for again. All he has left is the faint clutches of hope he still holds for Sufferer, that they might still succeed and make it so no troll ever suffers as he does now. It is too late for him, but the thought that he might have in some way helped in changing things for the future…well, that makes it all worth it.
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THE FAMIILY.
[/b] [/SIZE]WELL, HE U2ED TWO BEAT ME IIN MOR2E CODE,
2O IIT2 PO22IIBLE. [/center]
PETS None
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HISTORY
Gearcore cannot remember much of his young life before his enslavement. If he closes his eyes and tries to focus, he can see brief memories—a large lusus holding him in one hand, a half-built hive, sleeping under a tarp in a small pool of slime as it was being built…
He assumes that he never finished the hive. Or perhaps he had, and he was simply out playing near his bee-hives; all he can remember is that he was outside when the slavers captured him. His lusus had always tried to be careful, moving them out far into the country-side, hoping that the effort of finding one psionic would be too much to send any formal troops to collect him. His lusus had been wrong.
Gearcore tried to fight back, but so unsteady with his powers as he was at a young age, he present very little challenge. They bound and gagged him before shoving him into a bag. All he could do is cry, and give a muffled scream as he heard his lusus’ final, pained cries in the distance.
Thus began Gearcore’s life as a slave.
He was shoved into a room with a number of other young wrigglers, told that they were property, that they would be culled if they tried to escape, that they didn’t have any lususes to go back to anyways, and they had to do what their masters told them from then on.
Most of the wrigglers, Gearcore included, were too scared to do much more than silently comply. Within the next week, they were all shipped off to different masters. Few words can explain the terror he felt during that time, the silent tears that wracked his frame when he tried to sleep, just praying that his lusus was okay, and would come to save him soon.
His lusus was dead, though. As were all of the other wriggler’s. He ended up on a large plantation, where he would work in heavy lifting due to his psychic powers. The work was grueling, his injuries plentiful. They worked him to points of psychic exhaustion that nearly left him comatose at the end of many days. As they tend to say, however, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and the terrible exertions did sharpen and acclimate his mind to the grueling labor.
No matter what time of the day or night, the slaves were closely monitored. While quiet talking was allowed, none of the slaves ever had much to say. It was a lonely, crippling environment for the boy. On occasion, one of the older trolls might take pity on him—offer him a pat on the head, a piece of bread—but for the most part, he was as ignored as any other slave. He was nothing but an object, and he soon came to see himself as such. He stopped crying, stop being scared, stopped feeling anything at all, really. The nights were all the same, his life just a constant stream of back-breaking working without meaning. He stayed there many sweeps—everything blurred together without meaning. He woke, worked, and slept. He was surrounded by other slaves, but completely alone. What he felt was minimal—mad, yearning, dismal…not a month went by that another of the younger slaves killed themselves. He would learn from an older slave that only one out of every ten young slaves survived to adulthood. As more days passed, he began to realize that he did not want to be that one.
One can never know what would have happened had Gearcore been kept as a slave much longer, thanks to the Sufferer’s interference. It had been another day working, moving a section of rock-slab away from the plantation when he heard the first screams and sounds of attack. His young heart raced, excited at the prospect of something new happening. The scraggly wriggler felt no fear as he ran back, climbing over one final ledge until he saw it—trolls in dark cloaks fighting against the guards, while others in similar cloaks shepherded the slaves away from the fight. He ran closer, utterly confused but enthralled, when he felt a hand grab his wrist—one of the guards plucked him up, and began shouting at him to use his powers to attack the people in cloaks. It then dawned on him that the cloaked figures were there to free them—and with the first smile he had had in sweeps, used his psionic abilities to pry the man’s hand from him, and slam him into the ground until he was dead. He stood over the body for a moment, paralyzed with a sudden fear. He was going to be whipped. He had disobeyed! Oh God, what had he done?!
But before he had time to linger on it, he felt another hand on his shoulder. One of the cloaked figures told him to follow the others. Scared witless, and still utterly certain that he was going to be punished for his insubordination, he followed her order. He followed the slaves and the cloaked figures leading them for a long while, until they eventually made it to a large encampment. This was how he would first meet the rebels.
Once there, they were given a meal and a place to sleep—and when night came about, the leader addressed them all. They were free of their oppression; free to do anything they wanted, and that they would help them to overcome their mental conditioning. They had to move camps, but when that was over, he would talk to every one of them.
Gearcore was petrified for his one on one talk with the leader. Although he didn’t wear shackles anymore, he was still a slave in mind—still worried for punishment, still resigned, still a mere cog in the system. The fear grew too much, of when the leader would speak to him, so Gearcore sought him out first. The other troll was older than him by a few sweeps, but he put on his toughest face and asked to speak to him. When they did, his fear quickly slipped away. The other addressed him not as a wriggler, nor as a slave, but as a troll of sound mind and credibility. He was kind. He listened—things no one had done for him since his lususes death. Sufferer mentioned that Gearcore would be more than welcome to join their movement. However, when the other mentioned that he had noticed Gearcore using psychic abilities, however, Gearcore’s face fell. Oh. So that was why he wanted him around. He just shrugged and said that he wasn’t very good at using them, and would probably not be a very good addition to the rebellion. What shocked him was that Sufferer didn’t care; he said that he would have treated Gearcore the exact same way, extended the same invitation, regardless of powers. His heart leapt—all his life, his worth had been measured by what he could do with his psychic powers. For this man to sit across from him, to imply that he was wanted for something more than his talents…well, it was a simple decision to stay with them.
However, the mentality was not so easily broken. He avoided most of the other revolutionaries for a long time, an introverted young boy ripe with conditioned fears and expectations. He was given a tent with which to sleep in, and there he spent much of his time, only darting out to eat, relieve himself, and occasionally go wandering around whatever countryside there were in by himself. He garnered some odd glances, but throughout it all, Sufferer remained a constant for him. The other always greeted him, stopped to speak to him, joked around with him—treated him like a real troll. Even if a number of their conversations ended in friendly debates, and him frequently calling the other an imbecile, he was quickly beginning to feel things he hadn’t known possible in his slavery.
The moment things all changed for him within the revolutionary group came during one dinner, with a number of the rebels sitting around a fire talking amongst themselves. Over the last few weeks, Gearcore had begun coercing himself to join them, usually lingering out around the sidelines and just listening in. That day, however, he was brought into the conversation when one of the members said something about how psychics creeped him out. Gearcore had always been reserved, never one to start conflicts, but he came to his own defense then—and the two soon began arguing. The rest of the fireside slowly quieted down to listen to them fight. Reaching the end of it, Gearcore had grown so frustrated with the other, that he simply used his psychic powers to pick up the other’s plate of potatoes and whip it into his face. Fear gripped him, the shackles of his oppression returning as he remembered what happened to disorderly slaves. But as the man pulled the plate back and wiped his face, he simply grinned and stated, “I suppose slap-stick humor might be one benefit of psionics”, and the rest of the camp burst out laughing. Instantly, the mood changed and the man clapped him on the back, and bid him to sit next to him. From there he was invited into the conversations around him, and they talked about the act with hearty laughs for the rest of the night. People called him a genius, said they’d wanted to shut him up like that for a long time—to feel so included, so a part of things, Gearcore had the distinct feeling that he wouldn’t need to hide in his tent anymore.
True to the thought, he fully joined Sufferer’s cause in the sweep that followed, and continued speaking to the man on a daily basis. Although they bickered about menial things, it was always in good fun, and Gearcore came to completely trust the man. And in time, he would prove himself in battle along his side, throwing himself fully into every mission—each time they saved slaves, each time he saw the faces of the wrigglers whose situations he knew all too well, he could only smile. Sufferer had given him more than a home, friendship, even a family to call his own; he had given him a purpose, an identity, and a feeling of being important.
In time, the friendship between he, the Sufferer, and Sufferer’s closest friends grew. It wasn’t long until he was in the Sufferer’s inner-circle—it was an honor beyond words. With more earnestly and loyalty than he had ever known possible, he swore that he would dedicate his life the Sufferer’s cause, and do whatever it took to protect him.
Travelling with the rebels was grueling at times, to be certain—and certainly more than dangerous. They were ruthlessly hunted wherever they went, and barely managed to escape more than a few fights. But no matter what happened, no matter how many members their pursuers captured, Sufferer always found a way to free them. Or, almost always. Gearcore himself was captured once or twice, but he was easily capable of escaping with a bit of help from Sufferer.
For many a sweep this continued—only coming to an end at one particular fight. The little group had become notorious as the figureheads for the revolution—that the Sufferer had a powerful psionic at his side was news that everyone seemed to know. Everyone, including the Empress' fleet
They, with control over everything, sent a flurry of their forces to attack them; they were ambushed, with no chance to prepare for an attack. The battle persisted for some time, Gearcore himself making certain to stay directly next to Sufferer and the other two. He might have had a chance to escape with them, had he noticed a troll swinging a sword toward the Sufferer. So distracted was he in pushing the other away, that he had no time to defend the attack from behind him. A swift hit to the back of the head, and he was unconscious. When he awoke, he was in a locked, windowless cage. If the movement was anything to go by, they were on the ocean. Try as he might to break the cage apart with his psychic energy, it was too strong. He fell asleep again in the cage, still certain that he would find a way to escape.
When he awoke, however, he was shocked to find himself in a perplexing room—wooden walls covered in pink, pulsating tendrils, and half-submerged. His eyes flashed open and he attempted to move, startled to learn that he himself was held in place by the tendrils.
And then he saw her. The Empress herself among her royal fleet
They talked for a time—or rather, he shouted, and they spoke, ever patronizing him. They had taken note of his psychic abilities, and would be using him as a helmsman. His energy would be channeled into her ship through the tendrils writhing around his body, and he himself would steer the boat as they commanded. He laughed, stating that he would never do such a thing—never betray his friends and help an elitist whore and her brainless lackies. They then showed him what they could do to him, trapped like that. Like the tentacles of a thousand jellyfish, the tendrils zapped him—pain exploded across his chest and he tore his head back, screaming. The crew left, and the zapping continued periodically through the day, disallowing any sleep.
They royal crew came back the next day without the Empress, saying the same thing again—that he really couldn’t resist. He laughed once more, stating that he would sooner kill himself than allow them to have her way. Expecting such, a bargain was offered to him—one that he would not be able to refuse. Obey their every command, be their slave, and they nor any of her sea-dwelling nobility would hunt the Sufferer. They said to think about it, and give him decision at the fall of night, but he stopped them before she could go, agreeing to their deal. He had sworn to always protect him, and he was determined to do just that.
Gearcore became a slave again on that day. He was kept locked in that room, writhing against the tendrils and tortured by their stings. He had agreed to their plan, but he wasn’t going to do it without making some noise. He yelled at anyone when they came near, swore at them no matter how much they made the tendrils burn him, he would never succumb to them. He followed their orders, to be sure, but he was never civil.
When the days came, and he was alone in the room besides the always-moving tendrils, his resolve faltered. What was going to happen to him? Would he ever see the rebels again? Would they help him? Did they even know where they were? Oh God, were they all okay? The mental tortures were far worse than the physical, and he was certain she knew this.
The sweeps passed, and the passion with which he fought against them waned. Screams and profanity eventually turned to silent glares, slowly growing more and more resigned to his fate. There was nothing he could do—nothing but comply, strung up as he was. The strength and self-confidence he had felt faltered, until he could only feel sorry for himself. Worthless. That was what he was, completely and utterly worthless again. He was just a slave, and the sooner it all ended the better.
So when the time came that she decided to extend his life to match her own…well, he fought it tooth and nail, screaming as she did so. He wanted to die. He wanted it to end—but in good conscience, he could not kill himself, knowing that doing such would mean that the Sufferer would be hunted again. Even that he wasn’t sure of—maybe the Sufferer was already dead. He had no knowledge of the outside world, how was he to know at all?
He has no idea how much time passed like that. There were no days or nights down there—only a waking nightmare and fitful sleep marred by excruciatingly painful visions.
When he was one day released from the tendrils and brought onto deck with the rest of the Empress’ slaves one night, he could only feel shock and confusion. But from there, one of her generals informed them of the situation with the zombies—apparently they had been a problem for roughly five sweeps by that point. Gearcore could really only stare in awe, wondering if it was all some fitful hallucination. The royal crew, as such, would not be using the Empress' ship for a time, and that they were to go scavenging on the mainland to keep themselves useful. Just as Gearcore began playing with ideas of freedom, the general motioned towards his temple, mentioning the tendrils that could track them, send them messages, shock and potentially kill them if they tried to ever remove them. Gearcore felt his own head—there they were. He would later be horrified when he looked at them in a reflection.
Thus we are brought to the present.
Being among other trolls again is nothing short of harrowing. As if those sweeps with the rebels never existed, the slave mentality has firmly grasped him again, unable to touch, or even speak to anyone in the encampment. He absolutely despises himself for it, but can’t help but feel resigned to it all. When all is said and done, and the zombies are gone, he knows he will have any semblance of this freedom taken away again, and just be a slave again. For thousands and thousands of years.
It is a hard fact to swallow.
Despite it all, he still has his hope. It is the only thing left to cling to. Some moments, it feels as though it isn’t enough—he loses his resolve, slumps over, and simply cries, begging to be killed. His begs are never heeded, from a royal crew who knows how valuable his powers are. He tries to remain strong, especially nowadays with so many of those precious highbloods perishing from the zombie attacks, but so often it’s hard to think that there can be any reason for his living.
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