User:Banash
| This page describes a character who is dead or retired from Hollow. |
| This Page has been marked as a Character Profile. |
Name: Banash Wolfbane
Race: Human with the Curse of Lycanthropy
Title: None as of yet, then again, isn't quite deserving of one
Occupation: Security at the Hanging Corpse
Alignment: Neutral Good/Chaotic Evil
Rival of sorts: Kasyr
~Learning to control one's self, a work in the making~
Banash stands in simple attire, body garbed in naught but clothing of the common. A cooling breeze blows through this particular part of Hollow, its very essence calming, wind causing silver-stained-brown locks to dance within the air. "You wish for me to control the thing which killed your fiancée, no?" he inquires, true curiosity dwelling within his tone. "If so, prepare yourself for a fight... However, if you wish for more to die, run away," he gives such options though he already knows which would be chosen by the imp-hybrid. Banash’s eyelids close slowly to send the lycanthrope into a trance of sorts-more of a deep remembrance really-to invoke previously felt emotions, those which he felt the previous night. Golden hued optics open to simply stare at Kasyr for a short while, right hand drifting to hip to take hold of Kyrok's hilt and give it a mild tug. Within the air resonates the hissing of steel, the soothing song of a true warrior. He would seem different... very different in fact, change in mental stature to one of rage, though oddly enough the same mental stature provides himself bits of sanity; how long this state of mind would last is unknown. Transformation occurs subtly, most changes going unnoticed until completed. With the sound of splitting flesh his nails grow to claws, traces of blood left around the bases due to the change. Canines would elongate to fangs of the wolf, sinister gleam shining through the slight part in his lips, the parting provided by a smirk coy in nature. Ears would point, tips being triangular, much like a dog's when perked. Only after transformations are made would he prepare for his onslaught, change of footing being a precursor to the rush to unfold. Step after step is taken, quickening with each successive pace. Kyrok is brought to rest at hip, tip aligned with its target's abdomen, the usual beginning of any of his attacks, though as he neared it would change dramatically. Only right hand would hold the sword, lowering of body aiming left shoulder towards the imp's chest, Kyrok sent under its wielder’s forearm for its flat to slide softly against his skin causing only minor irritation. The tip seeks to disembowel Kasyr.
Kasyr drifted into the center of that gathering of malformed mounds of dirt, the multitude of hills which spread out in all directions, idyllic in its scenery, in the simple perfection of nature, flora and some fauna chaotically interspersed amidst the moonlit 'plains'. The tiefling took all this in during the purposeful approach, moreso as he drew close, eyes of a now luminescent amber hue focused rather fixedly upon that lycanthrope in a silent form of observation, combined with a hateful glower. He was still able to restrain himself however, a dignified stance taken some paces away, by which point the simply garbed guardian began to adjust the clothing he had brought with him- all chosen quite carefully, from the boots and closefitting pants- to the lack of shirt and the commonly worn weighted trenchcoat, indeed, the sole superfluous item would likely be the black scarf curled about his neck, ends trailing about in the twilit breeze to appease that internal need for dramatics. The neutral countenance did not last long however, giving way at those words which struck him deep, lids flaring open wide as his mouth twisted into a brutal grimace, a vile parody of a smirk. "The only I wish to die would be tu, Monsieur- For your sake, that beast needs to be ended~" The words were likely lost, revelations of the others feral side and its appearance the true recipient of that particular bit of speech, - but all that provoked was a simple lifting up ever gloved hands clasping coming up to brush upon the fur trim of his coat, awaiting the violence that was to come with a macabre anticipation, which only grew with that overbearing sense of anger which poured forth from Banash and the closing distance betwixt the two. Hence, did his right hand fall upon the ebon sheathe of his blade, digits of his left appendage curling about the pommel of the serpentine blade in a manner akin to a one seeking comfort, a brushing touch at first- before it clasps for dear life, and draws it forth. A cacophony, serpents shrieking into the darkness of the eve was the response to Gospel's liberation, the blades name seeming to lurk at the tip of Kasyrs mind for some reason, as well as a envious desire to strip that which Banash possessed. That distraction of a minds eye was a grievous fault however, the ensuing slash that's used to clear the blade from its intended targer coming a moment to slow, unable to fully deter it from kissing upon flesh and drinking freely of the crimson gift of life. The hybrids eyes twitched, mind momentarily clear of the blade's whisperings as the sobering wave of pain crashes upon his mind- dashing delirious reveries into oblivion - the siren call silent for the moment. And then he reacted. A moment of rigidity. Body turning towards the left. One foot tensing as though to rush towards the very side the first strike had been misdirected. And yet. That wicked smirk appeared again as his body would suddenly become loose and limber, all attempts made towards a rather sudden side stumble towards the right, the blacked blade of the ouroboros flicked upwards to bury the blade violently into the lycans right side, just above the hip, and drag it as forcefully and brutally as one could- the tender care of a barbaric bloodlust- a murderous desire unleashed, which only ended with a abrupt toss of ones left arm back, to dislodge the arnament, and a full lunge of ones body into his foe, well and intent upon crashing forehead into the wolfkins forehead.
Banash| Pupils dilate in excitement and pain both as the blade licks into his side, though he merely allows the tip to penetrate, slight movement allowing such damage to be done. Nonetheless, blood is drawn from the lycanthrope, it being shown through the clean slicing of black, blood stained cloth. Enthrallment of battle can be seen in the simple gleam within the golden eyes of Banash, movements quickening to likes of which has never been seen before-never exhibited by himself at least-to hastily lunge backwards in avoidance of Kasyr's attacks. "You've gotten stronger since last we've fought," he states with simplicity in his tone, yet in its depths one can hear the yearning of bloodlust, the hunger of the wolf. Banash heeds the warnings provided by own tone, yet cannot lose control to the wolf if this spar's goal is to be met. He analyzes his adversary for a rather short amount of time before attack is to be declared through movements, though he finds no weak spot in this man's form aside from mental stature. His only option is to make one. Posture is changed to bend downwards for hands to idly play with the laces of his boots for a short period of time; a distraction from the real reason for such bending, such weak posture. Corroded, rusted, and viral blade is all words that can describe the dagger which is drawn from his boot, edges jagged and quite capable of slicing through soft flesh with ease. This disgusting blade is held within his left, blade hidden against his lower forearm, hilt clenched near unnoticeably by his fingertips alone; a balancing act to say. As mentioned before, his movements are rather quick, hard to match, yet it would be no surprise if a lesser demonic being were able to match them. His attack takes form, eyes locking with the eyes of Kasyr, feet moving in sprinting motion to close already short distance with minimal time. With right hand, hand which Kyrok is held, he makes a hasty slash towards the left arm of the imp. Upward flinging is made with his left hand, dagger sent into the air for a moment,soon to clasp his hand 'round its hilt, this blade seeking to lodge within the elbow joint, germs which call the blade home liable to cause a rather sickening infection, possibly tetanus.
Kasyr| | Drops of scarlet had been spilled into the air, glistening, glimmering in their morbid flight before they plummeted- spattering across the grass like the mornings dew, subtly caressing grass tips, a fact that seemed to hang in his mind- the image replaying itself endlessly- and corrupted further by a far away shudder of terror, felt due to closeness to the victim, fed from due to the nature of that perceived- and embittered by its poison. Kasyr wavered in his assault, remaining in his position, however prepared as he may be, rather then taking advantage of the retreat caused, a dire mistake when the reaction is unveiled- cruel and venomous trickery in the form of the subtly tainted blade and its 'plagued' steel buried within flesh, joint locking up in agony as the grip upon the Ouroboros blade is loosened, fingers held upon it in the same desperation as one hanging upon its lifeline. The blow prior had been easily held at bay, the simplistic redirection of a solid sheathe by means of a strike of equal force to the blade having protected himself- only to be maimed in a far worse manner, fate could be so cruel- as could the actions of men. Still, he wrenched back from the opposition, no longer lost in moments, in the confusion of his own faltering psyche~ clarity of mind granted well enough to dislodge the blade with a sickening pop, with the awkward and hurried motions of the sheathe baring hand. The unpleasent, tormented look upon his face and the manner in which his arm ~seemed~ to hang down at his side, only relayed to what degree the lycans ploy had been successful. "...I'll show tu more, Much strength, oui..." The line was drawn, invocation of all those energies absorbed, and priorly stored coming to life in a flash of pyrotechnics, trailing wisps of plasma which seemed to prefer the form of flame curling up about his form like some wrathful cloak, before it shifted to the afflicted arm. Though the hybrid was unsure as to what disease might do to his own form, whether he could even be affected- he recognised it somehow, the malignant poisons of a sort having run through his veins, only to be purged vis a vis a charge of wrath made purifying fire. It did not end there however, that display of power just a taste of what was to come, torrent of a fiery force coiling up and about the tiefling to devour him from the offending warriors sight, a momentary show of force- and by hopes a mean of dissuading a frontal attack since fur was oh so flammable- before that mass of infernal energy coalesced- writhing tendrils of flame but a humble gout- figment of its former glory- an illusion of weakness to what was forthcoming. Gospel seemed to hiss with excitement as the guardian, learned not in lore but instead the art of blades, changed the energys form within his will, with those turbulent emotions, focusing what was there into a crackling, thunderous sphere of charged energy- Chaotic arcing bolts of lightning at its finest. "...Murderer!" The hoarse cry stoked the wrathful tempest of eletricity sphere exploding into one solid stream of mystically catalysed death which bore down upon the hybrid wolf- that monstrosity of a ravenous beast- whereupon it would split, before impacting, charged flood of wisp magic created force parting into a pair of columns which would coil about the either side of Banash, seeking to cut off his exit, then join together at his back and crash fully into him- that attack quite capable of adjusting its position due to arcing, a fact which would be made know by the many small shocks which would arch to kiss upon the lycans flesh.
Banash’s metallic weaponry leads to the conducting of electricity along with the mass of flame which engulfs his form. His only saving grace is the elemental energy which resides within his body, leaving him with the simple shock, flame being nearly neutralized upon impact. He falls to the ground with minor convulsions, electricity surging through his body until being released through the weaponry which conducted it. His breathing is ragged and he has lost the battle, yet the purpose was met.