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Joined: 1-March 16
Last Seen: Jun 12 2016, 12:43 AM
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May 8 2016, 05:04 PM
To elucidate some flaws and virtues of Sol as a character, I will be referring to TvTropes as a database, with a bit of flavor text added to aid in understanding of his motivations and general personality. If you or someone you love is going to be threading with Sol, I highly advise giving this a read, because it will hopefully lubricate the experience.Anti-Hero 4
-Sol Is not intended to be a straight up villain. But neither is he intended to be a purely good character either. On a personal level Sol is quite flawed and unstable, and lacks the concrete moral compass of a Ideal Hero. Sol, as I have written him, is a Type-4 Anti-Hero, better known as the Unscrupulous Hero
. Sol lacks a positive moral outlook, and the moral cleanliness of a traditional hero, being that certain trauma's he has experienced have excluded him from it. The loss of his father and his right arm, as well as being an active combatant at such an early age have negatively affected his outlook and permanently skewed his moral code. For a start, Sol is not above using extreme methods to solve his problems, and this goes beyond shooting first and asking questions later, extending towards a completely disregard for collateral damage, and any effort to avoid such is often motivated not by conflicting with his moral code, but more often a pragmatic interest that motivates him not to wantonly destroy his surroundings. In both cases he this is because he is motivated by a strong sense of self-preservation that prioritizes his own survival above that of literally everyone else, and views extreme methods as the best way to minimize his own personal risk, but also because he views length engagements as being more destructive in the long run than simply annihilating an adversary outright, again not because he dislikes inflicting pain on others, in fact if it minimizes risk to himself or his assets he feels justified in it, but because negative PR inevitably has a negative influence on achieving his own objectives.Dark Passenger
-Sol watched his father die before his own eye, and shortly there after nearly died himself. Sol has personally experienced the void on the brink of death and from this adopted a nihilistic viewpoint that colors all of his outlooks and decisions. Sol does not believe in some great purpose, divinity, or moral code, and sees human beings and faunus as nothing but sacks of walking meat, (an allusion to watching his own arm be severed just above the elbow) waiting for the inevitable embrace of death. Rather than crumbling into a pit of despair and existential angst, Sol anchored himself to the strongest cornerstones of his personality, among those being personal gain, preservation of himself and by extension all of humanity, and the pursuit of pleasure. Sol focuses on these concepts in order to avoid the intellectual strain of having to consider his own mortality, essentially allowing his entire existence to serve as one great big distraction. Sol focuses on martial prowess and military might as mechanisms by which to ensure his own survival, and uses the power and influence that this affords him to purse pleasures of the flesh, whether those be a contest of might, or romantic conquest, or simply the money t pay for a good night at a bar.
However at the end of the day, the trauma of his life does not run very far below the surface and certain events are prone to triggering or reviving the obsession he has with trying to find meaning in an altogether meaningless existence. He is eternally conflicted between these two mindsets that exist simultaneously in his head, and thereby prone to being unpredictable."Moral Code"
-Though Sol ascribes to a complex idea of morality and honor, these concepts serve more as a structure to him than an actual guiding force. They are less a set or rule to govern his life and more like general tips to assist in navigating unfamiliar situations. Like other motivations his personal sense of honor serves as a means of fastening himself against the tide of remorse that followed the death of his father, and provides the illusion of his patriarch's continued survival by emulating what Sol perceived to be his code of honor.
A general outline of this code loosely states that those with strength are entitled to use it however they wish,
The use of lethal force against oneself justifies any and all means used in return; this extends to the crimes of the White Fang which Sol views as direct attacks upon himself and the rest of humanity,
Property and right are determined not by ownership but by one's ability to protect it, in other words a person who is strong enough to claim something is entitled to it;
Take what you want, and pay for it, working in tandem with the previous concept and serving double duty as justifying pragmatic goals and also a warning against over reaching for something which has too high a price,
Subterfuge and subtly are not a replacement for might, put simply Sol does not trust methods that are not public or contingent on strength of arms, because it is only a matter of time before those who use such methods find themselves on the wrong side of a sword, without the benefit of their usual methods as protection,
Survival of the human race at all costs, nothing matters other than making sure that humanity sees the next day, and it is worth mentioning that while his father may have differed, Sol does not view faunus as a part of humanity.
The Faunus Butcher
-The moniker "Butcher" is a word used by those who disagree with his methods, often faunus, to describe Sol. He earned this title due to his disregard for collateral damage as well as a personal vendetta against the White Fang, which inevitably lead to numerous dead innocents and scores of other casualties on both sides. It is widely believed that Sol views faunus as little more than animals, or simply hates them, if not both, but in actuality the only distinction Sol affords faunus is that they are not in fact human. And this is accurate, if not particularly tactful. Faunus are not human beings, and human beings are not faunus. To Sol a human life is not necessarily more precious than a faunus, but he himself identifies more easily with other humans and therefore shows them more empathy. He views himself as a member of the human race and thereby affords all of his loyalty towards the preservation and evolution of the human race, even if that comes at the expense of the faunus.Well-Intentioned Extremist
-As preciously stated, Sol feels justified in an and all methods used in the preservation of himself and human institutions. Sol will burn a house to the ground if it means avoiding the risk of having to clear each room individually, and will side with villains if doing so furthers his own motives without being at the expense of humanity. More than anything else this is the trait that brings him closest to being an actual villain. While his motivations and loyalty to his species can be seen as positive traits, when staying true to those ideals come at the expense of others it is easy to understand why he is so reviled. Furthermore, a preference for public displays of overwhelming force to crush his foes has given him a reputation as a brute and a bully.
In this section I shall outline the reason I created Sol and a few elaborations on certain decisions I made during the process. This will be a good guide as to what role Sol is meant to fill in any given thread.Solo
Given that Sol, is readily unlikable, possesses few if any redeeming qualities, and has several allusions and symbols of solitude and isolation built right into his character, naturally he is is well suited to functioning by himself. However, this does pose a challenge for threading with him. Below I'll give a few examples of roles he can play in a thread without having to be affiliated with one side or another.One Man Army
The name says it all, a casual examination of his weapon set, skills, and personality would highlight that Sol is uniquely suited to slaughtering hordes of much less powerful foes. If your setting calls for an inordinate amount of resistance from a given faction and you'd rather not have to slog through the inevitable waves of mooks, Sol can easily provide an excuse for other characters to handle more pressing issues. This lends itself especially well towards scene's of graphic violence that will test the board's V rating, and if you desire a situation to outline the horrors and moral ambiguity of using violence to solve problems, Sol and a group of thugs can provide ample examples
for this argument While applicable to teamwork as well, this works best when Sol has no stake in the overall fight beyond his involvement, and keeps him and his incendiary personality out of the way while the actual focus of the plot can get shit done.Leave Him to Me
As an extension of the previous entry, Sol can stall even an opponent that vastly outclasses him for an inordinate amount of time. And can free the main cast of having to waste their time with a particularly tough foe
. However Sol lacks the stopping power to put down such an enemy, and this works well as a stalling tactic.
Alternatively, once Sol has exhausted a group of mooks to beat on, he might set his sights on the actual big bad,
and this is the perfect time for the end boss to flatten him, and in doing so perfectly illustrate just how far he outclasses the heroes
.Weak as a Man With One Arm
Sol is not in fact invincible, and while it is my prerogative to perpetuate this belief for the purpose of other roles listed here. This suggestion can follow the above entry neatly, especially if the bad guy severs Sol's arm.Nemisis
Sol rubs a lot of people the wrong way, and is sure to butt heads with more than a few. Perhaps you need a reoccurring rival, who is not quite as villainous as others. Better call Sol.The Perfect Heel
Written as he is, Sol is a heel, in the sense that his core ideology is offensive and brutal, his personality incendiary and at times inconsistent, and he's just an asshole who has everything going for him in the grand scheme but takes out a small handful of misfortunes on those least able to stop him. He's a bully, and he's begging for a beatdown. That being said, don't expect to just walk in and given him a five knuckled lesson in manners, because not only will I not consent to that, but it also completely negates the opportunity for any kind of character arch. He's not going to learn his lesson, and change his ways just because some rando kicked his ass. This requires pathos.Heel Turn
That being said, with appropriate respect paid to his viewpoints and pathos established, Sol can be brought over to the light side. Ways this could happen vary, but mostly he is a victim of his own isolation and being viewed as someone who is senselessly cruel. I would prefer to have this take place as part of a pivotal moment in a plot, where Sol has some sort of say in the outcome.The Power of the Dark Side
Though this does not preclude redemption, it is a certain outcome of Sol continuing as he is, and it is only a matter of time before he casts off all ethics and truly becomes a villain. Additionally, a powerful villain could tempt Sol towards the path of sin, simply by promising him power and strength. He may yet find redemption, depending on attachments that he has developed, but if he has already gone over to the darkness, his redemption will be short lived.
Apr 27 2016, 02:05 AM
The half formed smoke ring, which more closely resembled an unfortunately dimpled sphere, rose from the young man's lips. Sol gave a disappointed grunt, still unable to replicate the crisp shapes that he had so admired when his father had still been alive. The youth chewed on the cigar before trying again. A mouthful of unsettlingly sharp teeth and a set of full lips, drawn apart in a way that seemed nearly too wide for his already broad face, gave him an air of some great serpent. Beneath tanned flesh, his bone structure was bold and strong, and neatly separated his face into a number of solid plains that could have been chiselled from granite, a vision completed by the golden hue of his gaze, and a single eye that was as hard as polished steel.
He might have owned that balcony on which he stood, and he might have owned the sky overhead for how even at rest and idle leisure, he seemed to project a declaration of dominance over everything within arm's reach, or more specifically within reach of the slightly curved single edged sword with a hilt stylized to resembled a winged serpent that hung at his hip in a sheath of scaled crimson ceramic composite with blue semi-translucent veins running through it. It was as much a part of him as the fingers on his hand, and with how he rested his left hand, garbed in a tightly fitted fingerless leather glove, almost affectionately on the pommel, it was nearly impossible to imagine him without it.
Though the weapon drew the sight of the one standing in the doorway that lead onto the veranda, that was not to suggest that nothing else about the young man was eye catching. In fact, even in a city that was synonymous with military might, the broad shouldered cyclops wore a uniform that set him above the average officer. A finely tailored blue jacket hugged his thickly muscled frame, hanging open at the front over a stiff black ballistic breastplate, and rising past the height of the teen's jaw with an armored collar that framed a powerful neck and in combination with his viperish visage had the impression of a cobra's hood as it encircled his head. A divided skirt of overlapping black blast resistant plates fell down the fronts and flanks of his thick thighs, secured just above polished silver kneecaps with thick straps. Unbroken plates of a polished steel rose from the top of steel reinforced combat boots, and bore a stylized representation of the fracture Remnant moon, a symbol of hunters as old as the oldest kingdom, as well as the vigil of House Moon, that matched a similiar design stitched in red and gold thread between the warrior's shoulder blades. Shoulder length brown, nearly black, hair was tied back behind his head, save enough for a thin veil to hang down on the right side of his face obscuring the eyepatch that had obviously once been the disc guard for a faunus arming sword. The sleeves of the coat, rolled up to the elbow on the left and utterly absent on the right in favor or exposing an impressive if not terrifying prosthetic limb, that matched the scabbard of the sword on the opposite hip, in how it was made of overlapping scales, colored red due to having been treated with red dust to increase heat tolerance, over a translucent blue core, also treated with dust of matching color to cause the metal to be perpetually ice cold to the touch, that exposed a network of metal bone and sinew as well as veins of shimmering red that seemed to glow gently with an ominous pulse.
Hephastus Heartknack had met hunters before on occasion, through his dealings with several small dust shops around Mantle, that had earned him modest fortune enough to own this humble estate as well as a not insignificant art collection, including one obsidian sculpture of a great cat, stylized to resemble a creature of grim, complete with veins of fire dust running through it's hide, that dated back to the earliest histories of the continent, but he'd never seen a creature such as the one now puffing idly on a cigar out front of his parlor. There was something unsettling about the young man that was so subtle that it was difficult to define, yet so complete that it was present in nearly every aspect of the boy's appearance. Somehow he seemed to make the cool Atlesian night seem even colder and dark be his very presence, as if shadows of danger clung to him like a veil, and even as disinterested as he was, he seemed as dangerous to Hephastus' eye as any other man might have with a length of bare steel in either hand. In fact even with one hand empty and the other resting lightly on his sword, Solomon-Daton Moon, son of the late war-hero Terrel-Daton Moon, seemed as if he already had the weapon drawn, and if he ever did expose whatever horror surely must exist beneath that awful scabbard, Hephastus wanted to be as far away from that as he could be. Of all the people he'd expect to answer his appeal for protection of his prized collection, "The One Eyed Dragon of House Moon" was last on the list of faces he expected, and now that he was here, Hephastus half thought he might prefer the company of the thief who had been posting fliers around Ares, announcing an intention to claim his prized black cat statue on this very night.
There was just something very threatening about the one eyed man, something more than the rumors of cruelty that were not often far behind every time the boy's private military corporation, a band of mercenaries really, came up in the news or casual conversation. The Moon company had become something of a household name, at least as much as Fontine, Velchans, and Rochelle, around Atlas and perhaps even beyond, but what set Moon and his ilk apart from the other two was a seemingly religious mission and dedication to wiping out The White Fang, and a willingness to got to absolutely horrifying measures in pursuit of that single minded goal. It was no mystery that the boy, Sol, who had watched his father butchered by a White Fang ambush, only to lose his own right arm in avenging his patriarch, was the reason behind this borderline obsession with stomping out insurgency and faunus extremists. Having this man standing on his deck was light suddenly finding a cobra lounging in his desk chair, and it was just as strange to hear that he intended to help.
" 'The Shadow Thief' is what the military police have been calling this alleged burglar." The young man said in a voice that rumbled like the flames inside a well stoked furnace, startling Hephastus by seeming to read his mind, "Whoever it is seems to think that the authorities can't lift a finger to interfere with his or her little games. You aren't the first person to receive this kind of notice. Purposefully tripping alarms just to evade capture, instigating a riot to cover for a heist on the opening day of a new art exhibit, stealing from a specific number of bank lock boxes in such a way that the empty boxes form the shape of a crude cat's head, and every time leaving behind a token in the shape of a black cat statue just to taunt the ones who try to interfere. I'd very much like to meet a person like that, just to see if they can even walk with balls that big."
"So you'll take the job?" Hepastus said, wetting his lips nervously as he wrung his hands and glanced behind himself as if expecting to find the "Shadow Thief" hiding behind the drapes.
"You'll pay? If your precious cat is still here in the morning?" The young man rumbled like a smoldering mound of coals.
"Of course, that statue is priceless," The older man said, nodding fervently
"Then it is already done. Go or stay, just keep out of my way, and I'll take care of the rest.
Mar 20 2016, 04:53 PM
"DON'T MAKE ME SAY IT AGAIN!" Sol hissed with a feral intensity as he fastened his fists on the other man's collar and flung him bodily against the cart-stand, scattering produce, fruits and vegetables, across the narrow side street, "RETURN WHAT IS MINE!"
"Finders keepers asshole!" The disheveled crook growled through his fangs before heaving himself off of the rack and ducking beneath grasping metal fingers as he took flight once more.
"I'll neuter you! You filthy animal!" Sol sneered as he staggered into the fruit stand and grabbed an apple, before casting it like a stone at the back of the fleeing thief's head, "I'll make a belt out of you!"
Fenrir Wesselton, was a small time pickpocket who, on any other day would have been able to flip the lifted scroll for enough to feed him for a month, but today he'd reached into the wrong pocket. For a man with one eye, today's mark was curiously obelservant, and by the time Fenrir realized he was made, the one eyed boy had chased him halfway to the industrial district. He was just beginning to regret his lot in life when an apple shattered across the small of his back and stumbled him into a chain link fence. He ducked just in time to hear the shrieking of metal as razor sharp fingertips sheered through the fence like tissue paper in their attempt to grab a hold once more. Dropping to all fours and making the most of his innate agility, Fenrir bounded to momentary safety, tail and ears laid low in fright.
"If you had any guts, I'd string a violin with them!" Sol called after the fleeing shape, a wicked sneer coloring his visage as shreds of metal fell from his right hand, "When I'm done with you there won't be enough for the dogs to fight over!"
He was enjoying this perhaps a bit too much. The catharsis this provided his many months of frustration was practically indecent, and he could have caught the crook by now, but he was enjoying toying with the faunus too much to have it so easy. He wanted the rat to plead like the beggar that he was.
The pitiful animal was waning in his flight, and it was taking less effort to catch up every time. Soon the weasel would be too exhausted to flee.
"Help! Help!" Fenrir cried, only half faking the very mortal terror that inspired his four legged flight, "He's crazy! He's gonna kill me!"
"Only if I'm feeling merciful you wretched beast!" Sol jeered after as he leapt into pursuit, trailing razor shape fingertips across the masonry and causing sparks to leap from the bricks, "You're going to howl first!"
Like a cat toying with its prey Sol closed the distance again and again, swatting and batting at his foe before backing off, until the faunus staggered half dead into a shipping yard, bruised and battered and panting.
"I give! I'll give it back, please!" He begged, much to the indecent glee of his pursuer.
"You had your chance," Sol chuckled with a sinister grin, "the only question now is whether you want to be a cape or a pair of boots."
Mar 16 2016, 08:29 PM
The shaft of wood whistled like a switch as it blurred past Sol's head in a fluid arc, flowing so quickly that the rigid length seemed to curve reluctantly into a slight crescent. As he ducked, the bare chested youth side stepped moments before another shaft of ashwood struck the earth where he'd previously been standing. The muscle of his left shoulder clenched like a fist as tension traveled down his arm towards a similar length of varnished wood clasped in his left hand, and views bulged and sinew strained as said stock intercepted a third practice sword as it made a collision course with his shins. His single arm, despite being so heavily muscled that it resembled a handful of snakes all trying to constrict a single victim, could not match the might of the two connected to the other end of the blocked bokken, and succeeded only in driving it aside, as apposed to stopping it entirely.
From a distance the excercise would have looked decidedly one sided, as three grown men with sticks ganged up on a single youth with one arm and one eye. But in spite of that, the youth, a dark creature with shoulder length brown, nearly black, hair, stripped to the waist and exposing a chiseled torso that glistened in the noon sun with a sheen of sweat, was apparently holding his own, and by the look of the exhaustion on the other three, had been doing so for some time now. Blood laid a streak from the right side of his forehead down into the empty socket that had been his eye somewhere in the distant past, and on the other side a mouse was turning blue beneath his left eye, as well as numerous bruises elsewhere on his frame, but up until now, no single blow had been enough to take him down.
A small crowd had gathered off to the side, all collected on the edge of the path that ran through this public park, providing the quartet plenty of space. In the distance amongst trees and collections of exotic flowers, children played and adults lounged in the spring sun, as if there was nothing unusual about the spectacle on display. A few children had picked up their own sticks to imitate the four men, but most just watch with baited breath, gasping and groaning with each stroke and blow.
Sol was happy for the audience. His martial prowess was one of his few entirely positive traits and he was proud to be such a source of interest. Whenever he could manage it, he would break away from the melee to smile or cheer at the crowd, to the mutual delight of all present. It was nearly worth the clubbing he received from his opponents as often as not, each time he took his attention from them.
The forms of the sword rang in his blood and muscles like instinct, as the iron gate rose into a leaping helm splitter, the trio became a duo as one staggered back hands clasped across his brow. The crowd cheered as Sol landed and swept out the leg of the next foe, and thrust hard enough at his exposed side to send him tumbling through the air. No longer needing to divide his attention, Sol deftly parried a string of furious blows from the remaining combatant, and the sounds of clacking wood nearly matched the tempo of applause erupting from the crowd. With a triumphant cry, Sol drove the last strike aside, before untangling his weapon with a scooping motion at the same time that he pummeled the man's wrist with his pommel. His foe's shaft tumbled from numb fingers as Sol unleashed a graceful string of blows that made those of his target seem like a lumberjack hacking awkwardly at a stump by comparison. Wrist, elbow, shoulder, and ribs battered by in succession, the man gave out a yell as he retreated, cradling his now useless limb.
"Very good," Sol chuckled as he shook some sweat from his hair and leaned on his sword as if it were a cane, "Dallas, kindly pay them for their cooperation. They've earned it." He pointed at the man who was still groaning and clutching his forehead, "Pay him double for drawing first blood."
A bespectacled bookish looking fellow stepped out of the crowd with a towel in one hand and a couple of credit cards in either hand. He bowed his head as he silently passed the towel to the one armed youth and proceeded to distrusted the cards amongst the other combatants. He produced a small first aid kit to tend to the gash in the "winner's" scalp.
Mar 7 2016, 05:30 PM
Sol offered a sigh like hot air escaping from the relief valve of a steam turbine. One last time he went to his scroll and punched in the query with the index finger of his left hand. As he cradled the small tablet in the palm of his right hand, or at least the ungainly machine that served it's purpose, he looked clumsy as he pecked the screen with the fingertips of his less dominant, and now only, hand, and truly it felt pretty clumsy to. He would have used the voice option, as he learned to since losing the use of his right hand for that purpose, but for some reason he was hesitant to utter the query in question out loud. He wasn't afraid, never, no Solomon-Daton of House Moon. No woman in his family had given birth to a coward in at least a hundred years, and that fact was no less true for Sol. However, the circumstances, and his instincts suggested that a certain level of caution was appropriate in this situation.
|iScroll CCTS Search Engine|
Susanookami. "0" results found for "Susanookami"
He found himself sighing again, not entirely from irritation, but partially from relief. He had repeated that ritual so many times that he was actually worried of what might actually come up if it returned even on result. It had been more than a week since the letter, hand-written and sealed with wax like something out of a history book, that bore that signature.
My name is Susanookami. I have been watching your elementary career with some interest over the last months. I knew your father, and have determined that you perhaps have the same ambitions that he did. If you would like to make something of your otherwise mundane life, respond to this letter at the return address and meet me behind the building at the address printed below. I look forward to seeing you decide to make something of yourself.
"Susanookami", Sol had never heard of the man, if it was a man, and apparently neither had anyone else, or he would have had at least one returned result on any of the multitude of sources the young warrior had checked in the intervening week since receiving that cryptic correspondence. The whole thing tasted of a shady deal, or a setup, as even the mailman who had delivered the letter couldn't provide any insight, and the return address had been just some safety deposit box in Atlas, the owner of which was a mystery even to the company that maintained it.
So why had Sol responded to something of such questionable intent, and why hadn't he told anybody about it? Why was he standing here on street looking at the alley that ran behind the building where the deposit box was housed? Simply put, because the letter had mentioned his father. Though he would have likely given a much more complicated answer about being intrigued, enticed by the promise of making something of himself, or any of the other multitude of bone-headed ambitions that could have brought him to the industrial district in the dead of night in the middle of the week with nothing for protection but a sword and a prosthetic arm... and a small compliment of dust crystals, but at the end of all that the truth was... Sol missed his father, as much, more than he missed his own right arm, and invocation of the old man was an easy path to inciting the young man into brash actions. Sol owed it to his father, the dead father that he'd been unable to save or even avenge properly, to see that the house of which Solomon himself was now the head, achieved the power and influence that by all rights it should have had during Terry-Daton Moon's own lifetime. If there was even the slightest possibility of this back alley affair promised even a sliver of a chance of furthering that objective, then it was worth every risk.
Resolution chiseled his wide thick lips into a thin line, as his jaw set like a blast shield swinging down into place, and expressive brow knit tightly above a sharp golden eye as the light therein took on the flat certainty of the glow on the edge of a knife. His entire face was plains, curves and slopes of grim determination as he glared with purpose at the vacant alleyway from beneath the upturned bill of his bright red ball-cap, making it seem as if a crescent blood moon were fastened to his forehead. Dark brown, nearly black hair fell down before the ruin of his right eye, and the eye-patch he'd made of the disk guard of a faunus arming sword, as he raised his hood and collar to shield what the hair did not. He was wearing a long ornately stitched black coat, red and gold thread worked into the trim to give it the impression that he was wearing the skin of a beowulf, if only that were possible, complete with cuffs that resembled a set of bony ivory claws locked around his wrists. The coat fell just past his hips, and beneath Sol wore a set of dark pants that despite being closely tailored to match the powerful shapes of his bulging thighs and calves, still had a suggestion of bagginess on account of the numerous pockets and pouches, attached seemingly at random along the exterior. Feet lay enclosed in a heavy set of boots that rose up in ornately decorated greaves that used the long plain of his shins to render a stylized inscription of Remnant's fractured celestial body in lacquered black against the steel which had been polished to a reflective sheen. Against his hip was a scabbard and sword, the pair matching each other perfectly in style and color. Polished red scales of dust infused ceramic housed the slightly curved single edged blade whose intricately customized hilt of blue dust infused strapping extended well ahead of the sheath's mouth, clearly meant for use with both hands. A trigger and guard in the style of a roaring dragon and it's forked tongue seemed almost an after though to the entire design. Finally, hidden from view was Sol's right arm, beneath the wolf skin coat, a monstrous prosthetic that resembled a mass of rough red scales surrounding a core of almost translucent blue muscle, ending in a hand that glowed ominously with the shifting red of internal fire and the pulsating blue of it's dust infused material holding the fires in check, that was punctuated gruesomely with clawed digits that ended in points as sharp and ominous as the heads of drawn arrows.
Almost casually, he placed an unlit roll of paper in his lips, a dull red glow coming from the end that sprouted from between his teeth, and laid his left hand almost affectionately upon the pommel of his eye-catching sword as he stuffed his scroll back into his coat with his other hand and allowed it to remain there in order to conceal the decidedly un-biological nature of it's composition from any onlookers as he strode across the street towards the, by observation at least, vacant alley. He moved with a predatory grace, as if a great legged serpent, coiled up tall in anticipation and swaying to a tune only he could hear.
He melted into the shadowy protection of the empty passage, with only the smoldering red from the tube in his mouth and the alert sheen of the golden blade in his eye to suggest that he had not simply vanished entirely, and with every fiber of every muscle and ever nerve of every sense tuned and primed like a sizzling fuse in eager readiness, he forged ahead, ready to meet whatever fate had in store for him ahead.