The Summoner

[The Summoner]

hERES tHE lINE uP

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Summoner Longhorn[/color] [/SIZE]
tHIS iS eVERY sHADE oF wRONG.


tHE rOLEPLAYER.
y'KNOW fROLICKING iN tHE lAKE
aND sHIT tOGETHER?! [/center]

[/b][/color] Cen
AGE Old
YEARS ROLEPLAYING Hnghhh a bunch
OTHER CHARACTERS -
CONTACT ME BY PM, Skype, MSN, occasionally pesterchum as comedicTragedian
SECRET CODE: Aim for the head
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tHE cHARACTER.
gO, sLEEP BADLY. aNY QUESTIONS, hESITATE TO CALL

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Summoner Longhorn
NICKNAMES
The Summoner, Rufio
AGE
Twelve solar sweeps, or about twenty seven in human years
OCCUPATION
Revolutionary, surprisingly enough, though with the onslaught of the living dead, this has been put on hold indefinitely. However, in recent times, Longhorn has taken to acting as an unofficial figurehead for a small encampment of survivors that is protected by an array of cavalreapers that follow him.
ANYTHING ELSE
So much headcanon. All day, erryday. [/SIZE]
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tHE lOOKS.
lOOK uP iDIOT iN tHE dICTIONARY.
yOU kNOW wHAT yOULL fIND

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Unlike many of his troll brethren, Longhorn has taken to some of the more whimsical human ways of hair styling, perhaps enough to be considered slightly eccentric by members of both races. His normally black hair has been shaven down in places and the remaining hair teased into three separate, small, mohawks, bleached, and then dyed a bright shade of candy red.

FACE
With an angular and undeinibly masculine face, Longhorn is by no means an unattractive troll. He tends to have very thin features and a very narrow jaw, which makes his visage appear a bit drawn out and long, however said features tend to help balance his facial structure and keeps it from looking pursed or too stretched. His eyes are the typical yellow/black fare for his race and are rather large for his age, which adds a bit of childishness to his expressions. This, combined with an almost always present sharp-toothed grin, tends to make him look a bit mischievous, even when he is faced with serious situations.

That being said, his entire head is framed by two very, very large horns that extend out an impressive few feet from his skull.

BODY
Neither a tall, nor a particularly strong man, Longhorn can best be described as ‘lanky'. While he does err a bit on the short side, he is also whipcord strong and muscled in a way that appears a bit wiry. However, he is much more defined around his back and shoulders, due to the strain that the muscles there undergo on a daily basis as he flies. As well, the musculature of his neck is also heavily developed as a coping mechanism in regards to holding his head up and balancing his large horns.

STYLE
Practical, with an emphasis on clothes that are easy to fly in. His wardrobe tends to consist of articles that are fairly tight-fitting so as to reduce wind drag when he is in the air, and so as not to get in the way during his rides. Generally he tends to favour darker colours with strategic brighter accents in shades of browns and reds.

ANYTHING ELSE
Longhorn holds the honor of being one of the few trolls in history to have metamorphosed, or perhaps just revealed, a pair of gauzy, insect-like wings. While they appear to be rather fragile, they are actually quite durable and are strong enough to keep him aloft.

On an unrelated note, he tends to also carry around a medium-sized lance, as is normal fare for a cavalreaper.[/SIZE]
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tHE pERSONALITY.
i iNVENTED dICE wHEN i wAS a kID.
wHAT dO yOU dO?

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♉ Hoofbeasts; they are essential to his position, and because of his ability to commune with and control beasts he is on a deep level of understanding with those that he and his men keep.

♉ Whimsy; though he is an adult, he still retains a sense of childishness as if he were still just pupated.

♉ Class equality; or rather 'caste equality'. Longhorn does not believe in the tyranny of the highbloods and actively seeks a way to end such.

♉ Beasts in general; the ability to commune with them has given him a rather enlightened outlook on the fauna of Medius.

♉ Flight; he has been graced with the nigh mythological ability to fly, and he takes great, great enjoyment in that fact.

♉ The cavalreapers; they are his brothers in arms, and he trusts his life as much as any troll can to their capable hands.

♉ Human fairy tales; though he has not had many opportunities to actually get his claws on books, nor does is he terribly fluent in reading strange human languages, the small amount he has been told of them has fascinated him.

♉ Down time; though not necessarily lazy, he does appreciate the scant few times he can relax and not have to worry about either the undead or highblood retribution. Of course, such times are few and far between.

DISLIKES
♉ The undead; though that is perhaps a given for every survivor.

♉ Oppression; the exact reason he is fighting against the hierarchy, after all.

♉ Highbloods; or rather those that choose to lord their blood colour over others.

♉ The general shape of recooprecoons; they're just not big enough for him to fit, goddamnit

♉ Sea dwellers; mostly due to the fact they tend to be so arrogant.

♉ The Grand Highblood; a tyrant that must be dethroned, no matter what the cost.

♉ The Empress; though less so than the Grand Highblood, she is still a means of the tyrannical system that rules over trollkind.

♉ Doorways; they're never wide enough. Never[/b].

♉ Racial tensions; frankly, he tends to not pay much attentions to humans, if only because his goals are set on the leaders of his own race.

♉ Technology; if only because he frankly doesn't quite understand most of it.

HOBBIES
♉ Riding, just as any respectable cavalreaper does.

♉ Writing; though he used to create small works of fiction for wigglers, he has since put such things on hold in lieu of the zombie apocalypse.

♉ Flying; he has the ability to, and he enjoys it greatly.

HABITS
♉ Has the tendency to use the word 'uh' when at a loss for words, not that happens often, mind you.

♉ Scratching at the base of one of his horns when trying to think.

♉ Oddly enough, his ears are rather expressive, and they tend to give away how he is feeling, depending on how they are positioned.

FEARS
♉ The sea; while it would seem foolish at first glance, his fear of water and the ocean itself comes from the fact that his wings and horns make it night impossible to swim well, and thus he can do little more than flounder in the water.

♉ Broken wings; the idea that he could suddenly one day lose his ability of flight is an absolute terror.

♉ Failure; though he will adamantly state the opposite, there is always a small seed of fear that he will never accomplish his goals.

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PERSONALITY
Perhaps the first thing that is distinctly obvious about Longhorn is the simple fact that he is a driven troll. He has goals and plans, and it is his strongest drive to accomplish these. His future success is not measured in ‘what-ifs” in his mind, but rather in matters of ‘how long before’. He is, if nothing else, confident in himself and in his ideals, so much so that he is entirely resistant to the idea that his way of thinking is not correct. In that regard, he could perhaps be seen as naive or arrogant, stubbornly sticking to the belief that the highblood population must be overthrown and that change must occur, despite resistance from others around him. Such outside doubts, however, do little to sway him, and to try to argue with his logic will produce similar results as trying to break down a wall with only one’s skull. Change needs to occur, and he will be the spearhead that leads such.

There is a certain humbleness to him, however, if one pries deeper into his wishes. He makes no claims that he wishes to rule Medius, despite the fact that he wishes destruction on its current way of government and its perpetrators, and in truth, he does not think much of what the consequences of his self-perpetuated revolution will bring. In truth, while he has thought long and hard about how much better the world will be when (never ‘if’) he accomplishes his goals, he will be the first to concede that he is not a proper fit to take over rule of the troll population. What will go on after he has overthrown the tyrannical highblood population is beyond him, he just knows that it is what he must strive for above else.

It is in that regard that he can seem naive in regards to his views of the world. Yes, the troll population is entirely savage and bloodthirsty, and yes he makes up part of said population, but with his lower blood he has managed to escape some of the murderous instincts that the general populous suffers from. That is not to say that he is devoid of those urges, but he is less apt to suffer from the bouts of murderous rage that those higher up on the hemospectrum tend to display. All in all, this makes him generally very amicable during times of normal stress and non-provocation, and though it does appear to make him a less than competent, mature, troll, his accomplishments generally are enough to cause most normal adult trolls to hold their tongues, at least around him.

For a troll his age, he still has retained a sense of childishness that is evident in his mannerisms and subtle movements. A sly side glance, a turn of a phrase, he seems to revel in the small mischiefs that he can make, rather than succumbing to outwardly chaotic immaturities. That is not to say that he is a wiggler in mind, but rather he has retained a rare bit of light in his heart that has been eliminated in most adult trolls. It is perhaps because of this that he has an uncharacteristic fondness for wrigglers and younger pupa, and though one could not say that this is any sort of paternal-type emotion (given that such is absent in trollkind), it is perhaps more akin to tolerance of their behaviour. Even though he is a full adult, he still finds humor and whimsy in life where most others of his sweeps would not, and thus manages to be rather easy going when exposed to such things, rather than resisting it with crude annoyance.

All in all, however, he is still a troll, and because of that he is plagued by the same murderous thoughts and intentions as his ilk. While he fights for equality, he makes no qualms about the fact that trolls will die in his efforts, and he does not lament these casualties, for it is just a natural part of such resistance. The elimination of highbloods is a definite goal, and it would be utterly foolish to try and claim that said goal could be accomplished without any sort of bloodshed. Though he is loathe to admit it, and in fact tends to dance about the issue if asked, he does actually take secret thrill in the murder of those higher on the social hierarchy than he. It is simply his trollish nature, and though he attempts to appear as though he is in control of it, instincts cannot be changed.
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tHE fAMILY.
wELL, hE uSED tO bEAT mE iNmORSE cODE,
sO iTS pOSSIBLE..

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Long ago when he was still young, he had a lusus that took the shape of a magnificent hornbeast, but in light of his position as a revolutionary and the outbreak of the undead, he has not seen it in many a sweep.

As well, he is distinctly related to one Tavros Nitram
PETS
Not necessarily pets, but a small herd of hoofbeasts that is corralled near the encampment where he lives that serve as personal steeds for the cavalreapers that are loyal to him.
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HISTORY
Life began for Longhorn as any other troll: birthed as an egg from the current mother grub and incubated until his hatching. However, that was where his early fortunes ended, as the moment he crawled from his egg sac, it meant the beginning of hardships that would follow him all through his larval and pupa sweeps. It was on display to all the world, stained in his exoskeleton, and though he was far to young to realize what it meant, there was no denying it. Brown blood was his calling, one of the lowest on the hemospectrum, and while he did manage to fight his way to survival throughout the trials in the spawning cave, that was perhaps the most monumental thing that would happen to him for many a sweep.

Taken in by a massive hornbeast lusus, he was sent to build his hive off in a very desolate, unfertile plain. It was a harsh, rather unforgiving landscape with few resources to use, but it was deemed a fitting area for a brown blood to be raised in, and so there was no fighting against the decision. Perhaps the thought was that by sending such a young pupa out into a less-desirable area, effort wouldn’t have to be wasted in culling him, not if he was torn apart by roaming howlbeasts or trampled by a herd of feral hoofbeasts, but alas and alack for the highbloods, such was not to be.

Instead, he was sheltered by his lusus, kept warm and safe when every harsh day would come around, curled up next to its soft underbelly as it lay to rest. The nights however, were an entirely different question, for though his blood damned him to a life of struggling and hardship, it also brought with it powerful psychic abilities that manifested in the form of the ability to control the wild beasts that roamed about. A powerful ability from the get go, it was perhaps one of the main reasons that he was not killed outright by his surroundings as he attempted to fashion some sort of place to live. It was strenuous work, an ordeal that all young trolls had to experience, but he managed to pull together a very small, single leveled hive that would serve as his place of residence. A great feat, he felt, and he was pleased, overjoyed with his work and himself. Though it was not a proper hive, and in the future many of his acquaintances would comment on such, it was a place he could consider home.

Procuring funds to furnish his small abode, however, was an entirely different story. His place on the hemospectrum prevented him from obtaining nearly any wealth whatsoever, and so his pupa years were spent working and amassing small amounts of boondollars in order to erk up a semi-acceptable living. Only vital things were of importance to him, as he was taught by his lusus, and so there was no need to worry about finery and fancy leisure items. In fact, due to how far from the city he was situated, he never actually had much of a chance to ever know what leisure, especially highblood leisure, was. A recooprecoon (well, more like a recooprepool; damn his horns), basic food preperation facility equipment, and waste removal and load gaping items were purchased, but that was it. Drones brought the items requested, took his boondollars, and left, and he was none the wiser about what other members of his species did or cared about.

Life was not entirely serious, though, for though he worked tooth and claw to make sure that he could afford proper things, he was still a childish youngling and a boy who was much more at home playing pretend with his lusus than attempting to deal with other trolls from nearby cities. In fact, it was most likely the fact that he did grow older with such limited contact that shaped his more carefree mentality. Yes, there were things that could kill him, and yes, the world was a harsh place, but it was a concept that was not entirely developed in his adolescent mind. Sure, there were the occasional night terrors that gripped him when he was not careful enough to submerge himself just right in the sopor slime of his resting abode, filled with blood and laughter and countless faceless forms, but those did not persist into the day and they could not hurt him. Yes, of course he felt angry from time to time, perhaps even felt as though he was old enough to actually kill, but that was just from poor sleep. Or at least that was what he had led himself to believe. It was a long while into his pupation until he was proven otherwise.

The concept of culling was explained to him by his lusus when he turned five sweeps old. It was a cold shock to the young troll, especially one that had been allowed such free and easy thinking until then. He was told explicitly that as a brownblood, his chances of surviving to maturation were understandably slim, and for the first time in his life, he felt fear. What was it that gave anyone the ability to decide if he lived or died? Why should that even matter? But there was no room for childish fears anymore, as he was rapidly growing older. Though not infirm of body or mind, the thought that any day, a drone would come to carry him away and dispose of him was enough to motivate the young troll, and so he began to change. Gone were the times of riding around on lususback, happy as a wriggler, instead replaced with evenings spent honing his psychic abilities on the fauna that surrounded his home. It was one of his only chances, he had been told, because at least if there was something that made him useful, then perhaps he would be spared the judgment of the highbloods.

Highblood. It was a word that he had not been familiar with, and frankly it had meant nothing to him until its significance was explained to him, once again by his lusus. The concept was once again foreign to him: why should another troll decide if he lived or died? The hemospectrum was to be obeyed though, that was drilled into him relentlessly, and so he put away his confusion and his questions, focusing instead on making himself valuable and useful in order to escape a potentially dreadful fate. As he aged, he began to branch out, having realized full well that a well developed power was most likely not enough to stop the culling trident, and so physical development became a part of his everyday life as well. There were no more games, only cold fear that he would slip, something would happen, and he would be erased because of his own error.

Sweeps passed and he was consistently safe from the culling trident, but his progress did not go unwatched. Though his interaction with other trolls was limited, he was still being tracked, just as every other lowblood, on a consistant basis in order to determine if he should be eliminated or not. Instead, he caught the eye of a particular highblood, and it was from then on that his fate was decided. They came for him one crisp evening as he was emerging from his recooprecoon, presenting him with the fact that it had been determined that he would make a passable addition to the cavalreapers and that he would be transported to a communal hivestem during his basic training. There was no room for argument or refusal, especially when faced with a decision made by those higher on the hemospectrum, and so he was forced to abandon his meager hive and allow himself to be transported to a city far, far away.

It was as if he had entered an entirely different world. Now there were other trolls, other lusii, to deal with, rather than just his own hornbeast, and it was akin to ice water thrown in his face. The world that he knew was harsh, had been told was unforgiving, was much, much more inhospitable than he had ever imagined. It was a blow to his confidence and his spirit each time that things went horribly wrong, when he did not perform as well as society expect of him, but the hardship was also the greatest teacher that he would ever have. Though he had been forcibly recruited into the cavalreapers for his skill with hoofbeasts, it was still an upwards battle to try to learn their ways, and in time, prove himself worth of the title. He fought against his blood colour’s limitations, against the prejudices that came with it, but it was still a battle that would be fought for sweeps. However, in the end, his perseverance paid off, and though it took monumental effort and commitment, he was appointed the head of the cavalreapers at ten sweeps of age.

It was a defining point in who he was. Confidence, which had long ago been forgone in lieu of survival, blossomed, and no longer was he a scared, nameless pupa. Instead, upon being bestowed with the position, he chose a new name, an adult name that would one day be known across the troll population of Medius: Longhorn. Perhaps it could have been counted as a foolish monkier to give oneself, but he was proud of it, proud of himself, and so it stuck. However, there were those that did not think that it was entirely fitting, not worthy of someone in his position, and from that school of thought rose another title. “Summoner”, they called him, for his abilities had never stopped growing. Beasts of the world, water, and wind were subject to is beck and call, and if he so wished it, lusii of other trolls as well. He was pleased.

Such went life for a time, and it was good. The cavalreapers flourished, and Longhorn himself was safe from the culling trident after sweeps of worry. Those fears assuaged, he began to finally look at the world around him, what he was really a part of. It was an odd sight, one that he had overlooked before out of fear and determination. Though he had grown up hearing tales of highblood supremacy, it was all the more evident now that he was around civilization. There was no place that he was welcome for his blood colour, it was his title alone that gave him sway, and even then, it was not enough for his brown blood to be completely forgotten. There were still trolls that lorded over him, highbloods who had never had a bit of difficulty or had to fear being culled, and it all just seemed....wrong. The hemospectrum was the law of the land, however, and he was content to follow it in order to keep his place.

It was when he learned how things were being handled that his mind truly began to sway. It was common knowledge that the Grand Highblood and the Subjuggalators were the utmost law of the land, while the Empress was the law of the seas and all trollkind, but throughout time, it seemed that the Highblood was overstepping his bounds. It was a rule based entirely on fear, for none were safe from the Subjuggalators, and the colour of one’s blood did not matter if it was decided that they were to be killed. Reason and logic were absent from rulings by the tyrant and his posse, and personal accomplishments meant nothing in the face of their gaudy, frightening war paint. If the Highblood wanted one dead, they were dead, there was no way around it, and because his handpicked men were just that, handpicked, they had rule of the land. The cavalreapers, the threshecusioners...all of them were subject to the Highblood’s insane whims, expected to follow his every order down to the very last syllable.

That unrelenting tyranny was what finally caused Longhorn to take a step back and think. Death was not what he despised about the Highblood’s rule. He himself had killed in service to the cavalreapers and he was certain that he would kill again, it was just how the world worked, after all, but it was the senselessness of how he seemed to just destroy anything he wanted on whim. Though he was not one for law, that was best left to the legislacerators, nothing seemed just about the troll’s actions, and though it was dangerous to even think of, the smallest seeds of dissention began to take root in his mind. It would be quite some time before they managed to finally blossom, but the culmination of such would prove to be explosive.

He went about his life and his work, leading the cavalreapers in battle after battle against human and troll alike, but none of it truly affected him until he was sent to massacre the members of a larges-cale revolt.

(and here is where I’ll need to talk to whomever picks up The Sufferer before I can really continue on this train of thought; headcanon ahoy)

The events, the thoughts, of what he had seen and what had taken place refused to leave him, despite countless days spent in dreamless sleep and nights spent breaking in new hoofbeasts for new recruits. The logic of the troll in the rebellion had made sense, and yet they were killed for nothing more than the expression of their ideals. He did not pity them, no, but it angered him that the Highblood was able to merely extinguish their point without little more than batting an eye.

It was that that drove him to murder.

Of course, murder in troll society was not a real punishable offense, due to the fact that it actually helped promote the survival of the strong, but it was the circumstances surrounding his deed that caused tempers to flare hot. It had been a routine examination of his squadron by an emissary from the Subjuggalators, and perhaps the troll they had sent had not been entirely too important, but it was the way that he had so smugly given Longhorn orders, how uncallously he had talked about the slaughter of the rebels that set the brownblood’s vascular pumping organ into overdrive. It was an instinctual reaction, drawing his lance, and certainly he couldn’t be blamed for the awful, indigo mess that stained the walls and floor for sweeps to come, but it happened so quickly that there was barely time to register what he had done.

When it was over, his men were shocked and appalled, torn between the respect for their leader and the need to apprehend and destroy a troll whom had upset the balance of the hemospectrum so blatently. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, it was other representatives of the Subjuggalators that made the decision first. Faced with enraged elite warriors, there was only one thing that Longhorn could do: he ran. It was cowardly, it was despicable, and yet he ran, ran so that he would live and be able to kill again. The blood sang hot in his veins after the deed, and there was a twisting, burning sensation deep within him that this was right, that it was what he should have been doing all along.

The resulting attempts to contain him failed, and it was in that that reinforcements were called in. Now he was faced with trying to escape the Highblood’s troops in greater numbers, and where would he go after all was said and done, even if he did manage to survive? He was running on instinct alone, and so it came as a shock when he jumped from an open window nearly four stories up, much to the delight of his pursuers. What followed, however, was nothing short of legend in flesh, because instead of exploding in a mass of blood and tissue all over the ground below, he was suddenly whisked into the air. Wings, the kind spoken of only in troll mythology, carried him from the place, gossamer and yet as strong as steel. Looking upon his form, the members of the cavalreapers were struck dumb with wonder and awe, and it was then that Longorn knew: his men would follow. They would follow to the ends of Medius, and they would help him pick up where The Sufferer had left off. The Subjuggalators and the Grand Highblood himself would die, because that was what was right.

He flew until he was exhausted, taking refuge in a forest far outside of the city. Utilizing his power to control beasts, he sent chitterbeasts back to the stronghold of the cavalreapers, giving them explicit instructions as to where they should meet him. It took time, but eventually the entire squadron was reunited and stationed deep within a nearby woods. Time was taken to devise plans and schemes at loosening the Grand Highblood’s control, and some time later, things were set into action. Blood was spilled, trolls on both sides died, but it appeared that things were in a stalemate. Neither side could gain an upperhand, be it through skill or sheer numbers alone.

But it was not just his own rebellion that the highbloods were concerned with. Perhaps had he been their only focus, things would have turned out better for the entirety of Medius, but it would have been egotistical to assume that one lowblood would garner all of their attention. No, the humans instead became more important, and the imperative became to kill them off and take Medius for trollkind. A virus was unleashed, and suddenly the world was torn apart. Now there was not only fighting between the two races and within the hierarchy of trolls themselves, but also against mindless, cannibalistic corpses risen from the dead as a result of too much biological engineering.

Naturally, having to fight off hordes of undead was a rather realistic reason to put off staging a full-scale rebellion against tyrannical troll leaders, and so instead Longhorn focused his efforts on a much more quickly obtainable goal. A semi-perminent camp was erected within the forest, cavalreapers and civilians alike chipping in to make sure that it was a safe place for trolls, and begrudgingly humans after some time, to stay. Running a smallscale village was not what he had intended for himself, but to this current day Longhorn attempts to keep the peace the best he can, even if he is merely just waiting for the day when his actual plans can be put back into action.


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tHE cREDITS.
tHANKS fOR cOMING, pLEASE sTAY
fOR tHE eND cREDITS.
SO JAYBIRD OF CAUTION CAME UP WITH THIS ADORABLE APPLICATION. THE QUOTES UNDERNEATH ALL THE TITLES ARE FROM HER FAVORITE MOVIE: KISS KISS BANG BANG. SHE ASKS THAT IF YOU TAKE AND USE THIS APPLICATION, THAT YOU LEAVE THE CREDITS ON AT THE END. SHE'D REALLY APPRECIATE IT A TON.