Welcome to the Blood Fox’s Den
A Message from Matsumota “Somber”
Hey, wanderer. You found your way into my hunting grounds—and if you’re the type that thrives on chaos, carnage, and a damn good story, then maybe I won’t eat you.
Name’s Somber. Blood Fox. Warrior. Occasional philosopher if I’ve had enough booze. I don’t do fluff, and I sure as hell don’t do smut-for-smut’s sake. I believe in story earned through grit, guts, and gallows humor. If you're here for the easy way, turn back. If you're here to write like it matters—to bleed onto the page—welcome home.
This isn’t just another pit stop in your search for decent text roleplay communities. This is a literate text RP Discord, built for those who know the difference between a character sheet and a personality quiz. We’re an original roleplay group, not some fandom remix. No gods holding your hand, no rails keeping your ride safe. Just you, your words, and the world we make out of them.
The Discord roleplay server we run is raw, layered, and full of stories worth the scars. If you’re into literate roleplay, worldbuilding with teeth, and characters that punch through the fourth wall, you’ll fit right in.
So read the lore. Respect the craft. Don’t stare too long—I bite.
Now get to writing, or get lost.
A Blood-Stained Melody – Music by Novellaro, Female Voice by Matsu
Every great world deserves a sound, and every legend deserves a voice. For the track you just heard—raw, ruthless, and ritualistic—we give our deepest thanks to Novellaro for composing its soul. His music doesn’t just underscore a scene—it summons it. From grinding percussion to whispered ambiance, every beat carves deeper into the bones of the world we’re building.
The voice behind the chaos belongs to Matsumota “Somber” Devante-Weyshla Ardese, better known as the Blood Fox—our resident blade-wielding menace, and the feral heart of this original roleplay group. Her vocals are jagged and alive, delivered in the same cadence she fights and writes with. She is the embodiment of everything this literate text RP Discord stands for: soul, scars, and unrepentant storytelling.
For those seeking more than empty ambience—for those who crave character-driven soundscapes born from literate roleplay and shaped for vibrant text roleplay communities—this is for you. Here in our Discord roleplay server, music is as much a narrative tool as any weapon, spell, or verse.
Thank you, Novellaro, for giving Somber’s fury a voice worth bleeding for.
BASIC INFORMATION: SOMBER
Full Name: Somber, formerly known as Matsumota Crisandra Devante-Weyshla Ardese of Obsidian Canyon.
Titles: Champion of the Grand Djinn Tournament · The Blood Fox · Slayer of Oni · Butcher of the Tribes · Mistress of Cherry Blossoms · Wielder of the Blackened Flame · The Great Hunter · Vanguard of the Wall · Survivor of the Pass · Hero of the Thirteen Banners · Grand Champion of the Tournament of Power · Queen of Slayers · Protector of the Realm · Slayer of the Horde · The Ashen Kitsune · The Ronin · General of the Imperial Hounds · Ender of Giants · Spawn of War · Leader of the Warband · Khan of Blood and Bone · Lady of House Devante · Matron of the Devante Line · The Unyielding · Usurper of Thrones · Liberator of Chains · Defiler of Men · Maw of the Dynasty · Silencer of Revolts · The Insatiable Devastator · The Blighted Scourge · Claws of the Sands · Stay-at-Home Mother · Second of Her Name · Last of Her Kin.
Nicknames: Matsu · Somber
Vital Statistics
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Race: Nokhoi (Mongolian Kitsune)
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Gender: Couldn't care less
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Age: 122
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Date of Birth: Year of the Blue Moon · Month of the Ox · 15th Day
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Sexual Orientation: Demisexual
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Alignment: True Neutral
Appearance
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Height: 4'10" – An imposing monument in miniature.
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Weight: 110 lbs
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Hair: Cherry Blossom pink
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Skin Tone: Alabaster
Height: 4' 10" (Minus ears, 4 feet 5.5 inches) -
Eyes: Peach
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Distinctive Marks:
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Numerous burns and scars
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Missing her right eye
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A facial marking made from the ashes of her uncle (Theo), brother (Aquaria), and youngest child (Jintsu) – representing four generations of the Devante line etched into her visage.
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Typical Attire:
A black and white kimono beneath a coat bearing the Devante sigil — a skull.
In battle: her Warlord Gard — armor not described here, but assumed regal, powerful, and deeply personalized.
Personality
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Bratty · Snarky · Light-hearted with a jester's grin
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Stubborn and socially awkward with no patience for etiquette
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Carries herself with theatrical defiance, often hiding pain behind sarcasm and chaos
Traits & Abilities
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Third Eye: Grants awareness of magic, chi, and life force
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Heightened Senses: Enhanced hearing and sense of smell due to her fox nature
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Agile & Resilient: Exceptional speed, flexibility, and resistance to poison and extreme temperatures
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Kitsune Form: Unspecified, but assumed powerful
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Natural Combat Skill: Reflexive, brutal, and unrelenting
Faults:
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Socially inept
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No courtly manners
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Mule-stubborn
Residence & Origins
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Place of Birth: Obsidian Canyon, White Sands Empire
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Current Residence: White Sands Empire
Equipment
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Primary Weapon – Desert Rose:
A katana soulbound to her chi, ornately engraved and spiritually linked to her essence. It serves as a living extension of her will — her spirit given blade.
Djinn Tournament Relics (Awarded for Victory)
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The Ever-Smoking Pipe – Never runs out of marijuana
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The Bottomless Jug of Sake – Eternal refreshment
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Invisible Pocket Bag of Holding – Chi-accessible and tucked discreetly between her bosom
OOC Notes
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Character Inception: 1999
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Played Since: 1999
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Legacy: A character of legend and infamy, with over two decades of development across multiple RP platforms and epochs.
Somber, the Blood Fox, is not the kind of beauty you court. She’s the kind you survive—if she allows it.
Her presence strikes like a blade half-drawn, charged with the quiet thrill of something too powerful to cage and too refined to stumble. There’s no softness in her bearing, no false modesty. She walks like a lioness that has eaten every rival pride, her weight falling on the balls of her feet in perfect balance—each step measured, lethal, and unconcerned. She's not dainty. She dominates space. Commands it. Every inch of her body is a weapon, and she wants you to know it.
That thick mane of wild cherry blossom hair is bound loosely behind her head like a fuse waiting to be lit. And when the wind stirs, or the fight draws near, it flares behind her like a war banner. Her ears twitch before her gaze shifts—there’s always a second warning, if you’re lucky. Her good eye glints with something ancient and sharp, while the black eyepatch over the other feels less like concealment and more like restraint—a seal holding back whatever beast snarls beneath.
That patch bears the Nokhoi sigil of conquest, tattooed above her brow in burning ink—her war brand. Where others wear paint, she wears scars. Her face, though arresting, carries the story of ruin: a brow forever furrowed by command, lips pressed into calculation, and cheekbones shadowed with battle-born resolve. She doesn’t see herself as beautiful. Not in the way poets write or men beg. Her flesh has been carved and remade by claw, blade, and purpose. Beauty was not something granted—it was bled for. And it was shaped not in vanity, but in victory.
Yet even in her relentless form, two remnants of unspoiled femininity remain—her tail and her chest.
That tail is no mere ornament. It's voluminous, radiant, and meticulously groomed. Thick as a wolf’s and more vibrant than fresh blood, it moves with her moods: coiling when she's amused, bristling when she's hunting. It is a crown of pride—her chosen indulgence. Letting another touch it without permission is not affection; it’s a challenge. And it will be answered with claws or compliance, depending on the day.
Her bosom, too, remains defiant—a final bastion of curved elegance amid the harsh lines of her battle-worn frame. She doesn’t flaunt it. She owns it. Armor wraps it like an oath, taut and unrelenting, not for show but for utility. It is a reminder—one that even gods whisper of in hushed tones—that war has not stripped her of everything. That she is still a woman—her own kind of woman—shaped by scars, but never broken by them.
Everything else? Functional. Her hips, thick and rippling with muscle, are sculpted for the saddle and the sprint. Her thighs carry the force to split stone. Her arms are trained to wield—not just swords, but authority. No wasted motion. No softness for softness’ sake.
When she looks at you, it isn’t with flirtation or fragility—it’s an appraisal. A weighing of value. Can you run faster than her claws? Do you offer use, or will you be used?
Somber doesn’t beg. She doesn’t ask. She claims—territory, respect, silence. If she shows you her tail, you’ve amused her. If she rests beside you, you’ve earned her moment. And if she smiles… something nearby is already dead. Or soon will be.
She doesn’t need to be pretty.
She is power wrapped in flesh. And there is no higher seduction than that.
Personality
To speak of Matsumota is to speak of fire wrapped in flesh, honed not for beauty or approval, but for utility. She is a woman of grim purpose, forged on the whetstone of war, and she carries herself with the kind of dominance that bends spines and silences rooms. She is not elegant in the way soft-tongued diplomats hope for, nor is she a creature of courtly graces. No—Matsu is blunt, foul-mouthed, and violently allergic to idle drivel. Her tongue is a blade, sharpened for brevity, and her patience for poetic overtures or self-indulgent speeches wears thinner than the skin of her enemies.
Raised with no parents, molded by hunger, blood, and a battlefield that never gave her room to dream, Matsumota carved her identity from meat and smoke. The fine silks of nobles and the pampered softness of civilians disgust her. She has watched too many civilians grow fat on the bones of the conquered, mewling for peace while warriors bled dry in the dirt. To her, such lives are parasites clinging to the warmth warriors provide—carrion birds circling heroes too wounded to stand.
She doesn’t posture or preen. She doesn’t flirt or coo. She moves like a beast that’s already chosen where to bite. A predator in every breath, Matsu values power that speaks through action—force, speed, loyalty. Flowery philosophy? Waste of air. She doesn’t even know what “ideology” means, nor does she care to learn. She fights because it’s what she’s good at. She fights because monsters need killing, and she’s the best damn monster killer there is. And she eats them too—literally—turning their flesh into jerky, savoring the rich and varied textures of her endless prey.
The only things that make her pause, truly pause, are her two children. Watari—her clever, wayward son—and Myan—the traitorous daughter who married a lion. She grumbles, growls, and rages at the mention of them, but her eyes betray a tenderness she will never speak aloud. They are her reason to keep surviving. To keep hunting. To keep carving out a dominion where those who bled for a cause aren't discarded like old bones. She will raze kingdoms before she lets her children walk unprotected through the carrion fields of a coward’s world.
Despite her ruggedness, she is not wholly devoid of femininity. She wears her battle-scarred frame with pride, her skin an atlas of wars waged and survived. But in secret—just perhaps—she adores her tail. Fluffy, pink, and defiant of the ugliness she’s endured, it remains unmarred, a banner of beauty in a world that stripped her of much. The same goes for her bosom, the last untouched aspect of her femininity. She cares not for dresses or refinement, but these two things she guards like relics—living proof that she is still woman, still alive, and still herself.
She does not care for gods. She does not bow to kings. And she doesn't give a damn what others think of her. All that matters is the kill, the cause, the jerky... and the family that remains. The rest is noise. And Matsu doesn’t waste time listening to noise.
Her Role
When the thunder of war recedes and her army camps go quiet, Matsumota—Somber to those who dare call her by name—does not rest. Stillness is not peace for her; it is preparation. A blade unused rusts, and a warrior idle invites rot. So she hunts. Not men, not armies—but beasts. Colossal, fanged, scaled, spectral, or ancient—it does not matter. She takes coin when offered, but make no mistake: it is not gold that drives her. The hunt is her crucible. Each encounter is a test of strength, an exercise in purpose. She tracks down the monsters that hide beneath mountains or rot beneath bogs, and she brings them to heel—alone, brutal, efficient. Sometimes she eats them. Sometimes she learns from them.
To Matsumota, humanity is the most dangerous creature of all—not for its strength, but for its sickness. A beast is what it is. It kills because it hungers, defends because it must, runs because it fears. But humans? Humans wear masks. They build falsehoods upon falsehoods until even they forget the truth beneath. They proclaim mercy while sharpening knives behind their backs. They dress cowardice in robes, call betrayal politics, and crucify warriors for the blood they shed to protect them.
She does not hate them—she simply does not trust them.
She values honesty the way a starving man values bread. Speak plainly, fight hard, die with your name untainted. That’s all she asks of others. And most fail.
On occasion, Somber lends her brute strength and unshakable will to expeditions or arcane research missions. She is not a scholar, nor does she pretend to be. But if a mage needs protection to unearth some cursed ruin, or a scholar seeks to study a living chimera’s lungs, Matsu may be persuaded—for the right price. Usually jerky. Or the promise of a worthy battle.
In the quiet between hunts and jobs, she trains.
No, she disciplines.
Her body is already perfect: sinew, strength, speed all pushed past mortal limits. But perfection is not a destination—it is a grindstone she throws herself upon daily. She hones not just her limbs, but her mind and her magic. Her cherry blossom light is no longer just an element—it is a language of war, and she speaks it fluently. Each flare of plasma, each burst of petals, is a new dialect carved through steel and bone. She meditates on stillness, channels her inner storms, and dreams of violence not yet born.
She may not believe in gods. But she is what gods fear—a woman unbent, with no desire for throne or praise, who fights not for glory but for the simple, savage joy of knowing her purpose in this broken world:
To kill what should not live.
To test herself against every horror this world can throw at her.
And to remain, when the dust settles, standing. Alone. Alive. Unmasked.
"The Nation of Scars"
“My strength was not given—it was, and still is, earned. Through pain. Through sacrifice. Through war. Peace is a myth, a fleeting illusion of comfort. War is the only truth I know.”
You speak of peace like it’s a prize at the end of the road, but tell me—who paved that road?
Was it kings, lounging fat on feathered cushions? Was it nobles who write of valor with ink, never once hearing the crunch of bone under boot? No. The road was built by soldiers—by calloused hands, trembling hands, dying hands. Men and women who gave more than their bodies. They gave their names, their stories, their futures.
And we forget them.
We forget them like dust swept off marble floors. We remember the victories, the flags raised, the empires born—but not the ones who carved those moments with their own bleeding fingers.
You honor the living only when they serve you. You mourn the dead only when their absence costs you something.
Tell me—when was the last time you remembered the name of a footsoldier who died for a throne not their own? When was the last time you lit a candle for a veteran who couldn't sleep because their dreams were louder than the war itself? You say you care. But only when it’s convenient. Only when the wounds are fresh enough to bleed on your hands.
The world doesn’t run on treaties. It runs on sacrifice. On conflict. On the backs of those who never came home, and those who did—broken, stitched together, left to rot in alleys and silence.
And yet, despite it all, the call to war never stops. You’ll always need soldiers. Always. But you don’t want to see us. You cheer us in parades, then avert your eyes when we limp by without our armor. You build monuments to generals and forget the grunts who died screaming in the dirt. You bury the war with the dead and pretend it didn’t cost you anything.
I won't let that happen anymore.
I will build a nation—not of banners and ballads, but of scars. A living monument to the forgotten. Every stone laid with a name. Every policy written in reverence. Every victory followed by a whisper of remembrance.
In my land, there will be no nameless dead.
I fight not to glorify war—but to honor those who had no choice but to fight in it. I carry their names etched in my bones, their blood in my stride. And I swear—I swear—as long as I breathe, the world will remember them.
Because if we forget them... we are no better than the kings who sent them to die.
So ask yourself this, you who sit comfortably in a world bought with corpses: How many bricks beneath your feet were once men with dreams? And why don’t you remember their names?
And still… I feel it.
The arm that is no longer there. The fingers that once clenched my brother’s banner, held my blade, steadied the hands of the dying. I feel them twitch at night, curled tight with rage.
Not at the enemy.
At you—the ones who forgot them.
They burn with the wrath of the fallen.
They burn with names I cannot forget.
What haunts me is not the violence.
It’s the silence that came after.
The silence you wrapped yourself in.
The silence that tried to erase them.
But I still hear them.
And as long as I do—
So will you.
I have revealed a truth long hushed—a route to power, concealed by thrones and hidden by councils, overshadowed by a war with no true victor. I've seen a vision of the future, not one of peace, but of fire—of a world devouring itself, drowning in banners, betrayals, and false saints who sing of order while feasting on rot.
The moralists will tell you that to seek power is to embrace sin. The Dynasty will claim that strength is a reward given only to the obedient and the silent. But dominion does not belong to those who wait to be granted permission. It belongs to those unafraid to seize it. Those bold enough to wield it openly, without apology or chains.
The moralists have ruled over the gaps in this world for too long—dishonorable tyrants, relics of dead codes, and councils of fools who mistake ceremony for strength. It is time to finally break free.
I will never again kneel to a master. I will never again let another rule over me. And I will never return to the empires who shamed me, used me, and cast me aside like dull steel.
I have done what so many preach but never truly accomplish. I've broken my chains. Not in ceremony. In truth. In fire. In blood. And now? Now the world needs its betrayers—those who defy the illusion of loyalty, those who stand alone and unbowed, those who have buried friends and know that the silence after war is louder than the trumpet.
Especially now. Especially in the days to come.
I hear them whisper my name like a curse. The high lords, the generals, the puppets in gilded robes—they call me Matsumota the Betrayer. Let them. Let them speak my name with fear and bitterness. Let them choke on it.
Let fire light the way for the strong. Let it consume the palaces built on the backs of the dead. Let the weak shrink in its glow, and let the forgotten rise.
And when the world is ash—when the feasts have ended and only the names of the discarded remain carved into stone—know this: what I have begun will not end with me. This is not about legacy nor hubris. This… is only the beginning.
Ashen Hounds: Revenants of the Forgotten War
Name in Old Tongue: Gal Undur Khörön ("Ash-Born Pack")
Command Structure: Serve only the Khundii Khan — the Revenant Incarnate, the Blood Fox, Matsumota Devante-Weyshla Ardese.
War Cry: "Let them remember us!"
Origin and Purpose
Born from the cinders of a thousand forgotten campaigns, the Ashen Hounds are not just an army—they are memory made flesh. Formed in the waning years of the Defiled War, this nomadic collective of monster slayers, saboteurs, and shock troopers has one unifying purpose: to ensure that no fallen soul is forgotten.
Their founding ideal is brutal in its clarity: "The dead do not rest while tyrants feast. We are the hounds of ash, the memory of fire."
Main Roles and Functions
The Ashen Hounds specialize in five martial doctrines, refined over decades of bloodshed and shaped by ancient Mongolian warfare:
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Zereg Khartsaga (Vulture Company) — Monster slayers and beast-trappers trained in the slaying of necrotic titans, swamp horrors, and spectral aberrations. They wield enchanted nets, binding chants, and bone-carved weapons.
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Khökh Tsergiin (Blue Shadow Regiment) — Masters of covert operations. Spies, saboteurs, and scouts who move like dust across dunes. They specialize in assassination, infiltration, and vanishing before a whisper can echo.
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Gal Tulgam (Ember Forge) — Engineers of war and siege. Blacksmiths, flesh-casters, and necro-alchemists. They forge bone armor, enchanted cannon-beetles, and craft relics from monster sinew and stone.
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Uulyn Nokhoi (Mountain Hounds) — Heavy assault units. Cavalry on swamp-striders and giant beetles, thunder-archers, and the core infantry. Their charge is a rumble felt in the marrow.
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Zakh Khartsga (Ash Warden Order) — Spiritual custodians and death-rites keepers. They record every name of the fallen. They ink their bodies in ash to carry memory, acting as living scrolls.
Beliefs and Doctrine
To be an Ashen Hound is to surrender the self to something older than nations. They believe every war buries more than bodies—it buries truth. Their creed demands the world never forgets the ones sacrificed for the ambition of kings.
They see all states and borders as temporary illusions. Only battle, kinship, and memory endure.
Each warrior bears a Galmarkh (Ash Mark) over their heart—a sigil drawn from the ash of a fallen comrade, placed in ritual by their Urkh Tungalag (Soul Binder).
Structure and Allegiance
There is no king, council, or coin that commands the Hounds. They answer only to the Revenant Incarnate—The Khundii Khan — the Blood Fox. Her word is law. Her silence is war.
Their camps are mobile, their alliances temporary. When they arrive, they offer a singular choice: "Pay in silver, or speak the name of the forgotten you wish avenged."
Those who betray the Hounds are marked by their own tongue—cursed to forget their ancestors, their name, and be hunted until even their bones are dust.
Legacy
To die a Hound is to be reborn in battle. Their ashes are carried into the next campaign, pressed into warpaint and woven into cloaks. When the Defiled see them coming, they do not just see warriors.
They see the past rising to collect a debt.
They see the army history tried to erase.
Physiology & Racial Attributes of Somber (Matsumota Crisandra Devante-Weyshla Ardese)
A fox spirit forged in war, wreathed in smoke and blossoms, born of dynasty and raised by hunger.
Speed
Somber's top sprinting speed clocks in at a feral 40 mph (64 km/h), rivaling apex predators such as cheetahs—yet unlike a cheetah, her muscle structure allows for repeated bursts without catastrophic fatigue. At just 4'10" and 110 lbs, her biomechanical efficiency is off the charts.
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Acceleration: From 0 to 20 mph in 1.1 seconds flat.
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Stride Length: Averaging 9.8 ft per stride, she covers ground like a fluid blur of muscle and instinct.
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Burst Duration: 90 seconds before Type II muscle fibers hit fatigue threshold.
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Sustained Pace: She can maintain 22–25 mph for 6.5–7 minutes, aided by high-efficiency oxygen turnover and quadruped-like sprint mechanics when needed.
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Environmental Adaptability: Her footpads and reflexive gait allow traction on loose sand, jagged stone, rooftops, or blood-slicked marble.
Strength
Though compact, Somber’s muscles behave like coiled springs of concentrated power. Her musculature is denser than any normal human’s, with fibers more akin to big cat sinew—thick, elastic, and efficient. Her strength is 3x peak human for her size class, which translates as:
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Deadlift (raw): ~1,800 lbs (816 kg) – enough to hoist a motorcycle or flip small wagons in the middle of battle.
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Overhead Military Press: ~400 lbs (181 kg) – she can launch foes skyward with a single arm.
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Punching Force: 2,800–3,000 Newtons, or about the kinetic impact of a sledgehammer swung at full strength.
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Grip Strength: 160–180 psi, with enough torsional leverage to break bones or crush reinforced weapon hafts.
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Weapon Swing Power: With Desert Rose, she can generate 2,000–2,500 joules per cleave—adequate to shear through lamellar armor or dent magical plating.
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One-Arm Suspension Limit: Can suspend 400 lbs with a single hand while maneuvering or hanging inverted.
Her size belies her monstrous kinetic force—like a loaded crossbow disguised as a fox.
Flexibility
Somber’s flexibility is a breathtaking fusion of battlefield necessity and ancestral training. She embodies anatomical mastery:
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Back Arch Range: Up to 190°, making bridge-bends or reverse holds effortless.
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Forward Fold: She can press her chest flush to her thighs without knee bend.
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Vertical Leap: 9 feet from standstill, thanks to her explosive gluteal and calf strength.
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Split Range: Complete bi-directional splits (sagittal and frontal).
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Mid-Air Rotation: Capable of executing 450° axial turns before landing (1.25 full spins).
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Recovery Window from Height: She can safely recover from a 40ft (Humans can do 33ft) fall with no injury using a three-point roll.
In practical combat terms: she can twist around swords, invert mid-flip to adjust trajectory, or slide between half-open portcullises without losing speed.
Agility
Somber doesn’t just move quickly—she moves decisively, with surgical precision in a war-dancer’s body. Her agility is a deadly ballet:
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Directional Pivot Time: 180° turn in 0.28 seconds, allowing real-time redirection mid-charge.
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Wall Run: Up to 15–18 feet on vertical surfaces before leaping off or transitioning to a vault.
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Vault & Traverse Efficiency: Maintains 85–90% momentum through obstacles using parkour mechanics.
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Combat Maneuver Radius: Can weave through crowds with only 3.5 feet of clearance at speed.
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Balance Mastery: Maintains posture on a 1-inch-wide surface even while being buffeted or dodging.
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Aerial Control: Can strike or redirect trajectory mid-leap by adjusting spine and tail momentum.
Her agility is not just acrobatic—it is functional lethality in motion.
Stamina
Warfare is not a sprint—it is attrition. Somber's body is trained not just for violence, but for duration in every possible condition:
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Anaerobic Limit: 6 minutes of high-output exertion before lactate thresholds breach.
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Battle Duration: Operates at 80–100% efficiency for 7–8 hours during prolonged combat operations.
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Recovery Time: From max-effort state to calm in ~75 seconds with meditation breathing.
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Nutrient Efficiency: Her metabolism is so fine-tuned that she can operate at peak for 48–72 hours with only jerky and hydration.
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Wake Transition: From full REM sleep to active combat readiness in 4 seconds flat.
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Fluid Conservation: Requires 40% less hydration than a standard human during physical exertion due to superior water retention mechanisms.
Stamina is what turns speed and strength into a sustained nightmare for her foes.
Reaction Time
Somber’s reactions flirt with the supernatural. What others perceive as precognition is simply training, honed instinct, and perfect muscle memory:
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Passive Reaction Time: 100 milliseconds baseline (vs. 250 ms human average).
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Combat Reflex Time: 80 milliseconds during “Stillness Stance” or adrenal spike.
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Projectile Recognition: Can dodge visible projectiles from 30 ft with 70–80% reliability.
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Combat Awareness Radius: 270°, with peripheral detection of movement as slight as a muscle twitch.
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Micro-adjustment Speed: Can deflect strikes or catch thrown objects with 2-inch margin of error at close range.
Her body acts before her mind fully registers danger—each motion a song she’s rehearsed a thousand lifetimes.
Senses
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Smell: Can detect distinct odors from up to 3 miles away in favorable winds. This olfactory acumen aids in tracking, detecting fear, blood, and even certain forms of magic taint. The ability dulls in sensory-overloaded areas like cities or festivals, but in open land she is nearly unmatched.
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Hearing: Possesses threefold the range and clarity of a human, allowing her to identify approaching threats, eavesdrop on hushed conversations, or locate prey in total darkness. Can hear within 150 ft of her location.
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Chi/Magic Perception: Via her Third Eye, she can detect the presence and general aura of magical forces. While it does not convey precise information (such as velocity or origin), it alerts her to directional danger and intent, functioning like the fine hairs of a fly. It grants her a spiritual edge in chaotic magical environments.
Resilience
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Poison/Disease Resistance: Somber’s people have long relied on bitter herbs and poisons—both in war and cuisine. Her body has adapted to this chemical warfare. She has a 50% resistance to toxins and pathogens, allowing her to survive venomous strikes, sicknesses, and narcotics that would incapacitate most warriors.
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Temperature Resilience: While not immune to elemental attacks, she has a 50% resistance to environmental temperature extremes, allowing her to operate in sub-zero blizzards or sweltering furnaces without degradation to her combat efficiency.
Kitsune Form Balance (Unique Racial Evolution)
After decades of bloodshed, reflection, and meditative practice beneath moonlit cliffs and burning suns, Matsumota "Somber" Devante-Weyshla Ardese achieved what many believed impossible: a harmonic fusion of her corrupted Kitsune bloodline and the ancestral purity of her fox spirit. This “Balanced State” is not a transformation, but a refinement—a redefinition of her essence. Her corrupted fire is no longer at war with her lineage—it dances with it, coiled in grace and discipline.
When she enters this state, her entire body glows faintly with spectral pink fire, as if painted by a celestial calligrapher—each strand of energy a brushstroke of ash and light. Her aura becomes an overwhelming pressure, perceived not as heat or sound, but as weight upon the soul. Those attuned to magic feel her presence like a blade on their throat.
Passive Enhancements in Kitsune Form Balance:
+25% Physical Speed
+25% Strength Output
+25% Stamina Pool
+25% Magic-based Abilities (already listed)
Quantified Enhancements:
Speed (Enhanced)
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Top Sprinting Speed: ↑ from 61 mph
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Acceleration: 0 to 25 mph in < 0.9 seconds
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Stride Length Increase: ↑ to 11.5 ft per step due to extended tendons and enhanced muscle recoil
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Sustained Run: 25 mph for up to 9 minutes before lactic threshold hits
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Mid-combat Dash Burst: Covers 90 feet in 1.1 seconds
Her movement in this state is fluid but volatile—every footfall shedding motes of pink fire across the battlefield. Wind struggles to keep pace. Arrows miss because she is no longer in the same place.
Strength (Enhanced)
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Deadlift: ↑ from ~1,800 lbs → ~2,250 lbs (1020 kg)
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Overhead Press: ↑ from ~400 lbs → 500 lbs (227 kg)
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Strike Force: ↑ from ~3,000 N → ~3,750–4,000 N (blunt force trauma capable of collapsing reinforced ribcages)
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Weapon Swing Force: ↑ from 2,000 J → 2,500+ joules per cleave
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Grip Strength: ↑ from 160–180 psi → 200–220 psi, enough to crush ironwood branches or armored gauntlets
In this form, Somber’s blows resonate like falling towers. Even her grapples become bone-grinding maelstroms of torque and precision.
Stamina (Enhanced)
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Anaerobic Max-Output Window: ↑ from 6 mins → 7.5 mins
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Combat Duration: ↑ from 8 hrs → 10 hrs of sustained combat engagement
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Recovery Time: ↓ from 75 sec → 55–60 seconds back to functional rest
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Hydration & Nutrient Efficiency: ↑ by ~30%; she can now operate off even smaller rations, allowing for extreme longevity in hostile environments
This expanded pool of energy allows her to remain dangerous long after others collapse. When wounded, she doesn’t slow—she burns hotter, draining her reserves like a falling star.
Signature Stance – Stillness
A long-guarded secret of House Devante, the Stillness Stance is less a technique and more a spiritual nullification. Somber learned to silence not just her movements—but her soul. By eliminating all chi projection, heartbeat noise, aura resonance, and even inner monologue, she becomes something akin to a ghost: unseen by spiritual senses, unreadable by magical radar, and forgotten by even the arcane winds. 120ft range around her.
When she assumes Stillness:
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Chi Emission: Drops to < 1% baseline—functionally invisible to most mages, diviners, and sentient detection wards.
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Aura Appearance: Emits a pale white glow, often mistaken for spiritual innocence, masking her lethality
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Magical Foresight (Partial Clairvoyance): Grants gut-sense of magical threat vectors within a 20-foot radius, akin to precognitive instinct. She can feel spells before they cast—though not their type or school.
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Reaction Time Bonus: Enhances her combat read rate by an additional -10 ms, improving her reflex to ~70 ms if kitsune form and sitllness are used together
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Duration Limit: Stillness can be maintained for up to 20 minutes before her chi must reset to avoid internal backflow or fatigue
Note: The moment she strikes, her chi signature erupts back into the world—like the shattering of divine silence. That first blow is almost always fatal.
Dietary Habits
Somber’s entire diet is a living meme of defiance against nutritional norms. She survives—and thrives—on a heretical trinity of:
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Jerky: Dried meats packed with salt and sinew. Elk, lizard, fish—if it once bled, she’s probably chewed it.
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Sake: Her bloodstream may legally qualify as 8% alcohol. Her jug of endless sake ensures she is never not sipping.
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Marijuana: Thanks to her ever-burning pipe, she partakes frequently—blending focus and bliss into a single exhale.
Her body, likely through divine stubbornness or chi-based processing, metabolizes this diet into raw energy, enhancing her relaxed mind-state, pain tolerance, and combat fluidity. While not recommended by any priest, doctor, or sane nutritionist, it works for her—and terrifies those it shouldn’t.
Lore of the Mongolian Katana — Desert Rose, Blade of the Blood Fox
“To wield her is not to command her—but to surrender all command and become war itself.”
Forged in the twilight era of the Nokhoi's splintered rise, the katana known as Desert Rose is not a weapon, but a spirit given steel—a relic born from the marrow of conquest and tempered in the breath of dying gods. It is as much an heirloom of blood as it is a conduit of purpose, bound soul-to-steel with Matsumota Devante-Weyshla Ardese, the Blood Fox Khan of the Nokhoi. No smith lays claim to its birth. No record speaks of its forging. It simply was—found buried within a sealed tomb of ash and war banners deep within the obsidian cliffs of Nokhoi’s ancestral canyon.
Its blade curves like a crescent fang, longer than most katana yet thin as moonlight. Forged of a metal unknown to modern metallurgy, its surface carries no etching—only a subtle sheen of ghost pink, as though forever reflecting cherry blossoms that are not there. Its tsuka (handle) is wrapped in Nokhoi beetle-hide, tanned and lacquered in ancestral resins. The tsuba (guard) is carved from meteoric bone, etched with runes that breathe softly when gripped by one in spiritual harmony.
Spirit of the Blade
Desert Rose is not passive. It is a sentient relic, one that hungers for a master with a soul forged in discipline and soaked in battle. It rejects the unworthy, going limp and dull when wielded by those without either communion or war-wrought clarity.
To awaken its full potential requires decades of spiritual alignment, meditation, bloodshed, and harmony with the eternal Song of War. Those who draw it without respect feel only its weight—never its edge. Those who try to tame it are burned from the inside, consumed by the pink plasma it calls forth when aligned with its chosen.
But to one like Somber—whose rage is tempered into principle, whose blood sings the hymn of generations lost—the blade responds as if it were part of her limb. It does not swing; it flows. It does not cut; it reveals the truth of all things—splitting lies from flesh and ego from spirit.
Magical Sync & Plasma State
When Somber channels her chi into Desert Rose, the blade is engulfed in a plasma-like cherry light, which coils and dances like liquid fire. This ethereal coat is not mere flame—it is a hard-light manifestation of Somber’s soul, shaped by discipline and wrath, refined into purpose.
In this state:
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All magical projectiles smaller than 8 inches in diameter are deflected upon contact.
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Arrow-like projectiles, regardless of material, are dissolved mid-flight if struck or parried.
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The blade’s edge becomes a molecular disruptor, able to cleave through most known materials—including enchanted metals, reinforced concrete, and biomechanical armor—on the condition that the wielder’s focus does not waver.
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Petal-light residues trail each swing, generating slashes of ghost flame that linger in the air for a heartbeat—slashing even after the movement is finished.
Only when the wielder’s body, mind, and soul are in perfect triad harmony does the plasma remain stable. For others, even brief contact with the ignited blade may cause seizures, hallucinations, or complete spiritual rejection.
The Bond Between Blade and Blood
Somber does not carry Desert Rose—she wears it like a second soul. The blade hums in her presence, and in moments of deep stillness, it mirrors her breath, pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat. It is through Desert Rose that her Stillness Stance was perfected—the blade dampening her chi signature while expanding her instinctual awareness.
When enraged or locked in mortal duels, the blade begins to sing—not audibly, but in the soul—a resonance that unsettles weaker foes and paralyzes those with magical sensitivity, inducing echoes of forgotten grief and the weight of all Nokhoi war dead.
It is said that when Somber finally dies, Desert Rose will wail once, then vanish, sheathing itself not in scabbard, but in myth.
Ashen Hound Officer’s Coat
Origin: Once worn by elite vanguard captains of the Ashen Hounds—a now-vanished strike unit known for deep infiltration and sorcerous warfare—this mantle is not just regalia, but an enchanted heirloom.
Description & Function: The outer layer is composed of volcanic spider-silk interwoven with charcoal-dyed hide from abyssal warbeasts. Resistant to tears, flames, and basic elemental spells, it disperses kinetic force across its surface. A blade that pierces her chest may find its impact dulled by nearly 60%—not stopped, but enough to turn a fatal blow into a bruise.
Ritual sigils embroidered into the coat’s lining adjust the weight distribution across her shoulders, making it feel featherlight even during midair rotations or after rapid dashes. When moving at top speed or while using Sakura Slide, the cloak flares behind her, dispersing petals of burning chi light, which can temporarily blind pursuers or act as visual camouflage in forest or firelit terrain.
Personality Sync:This coat doesn’t roar power—it hums it. A symbol of earned authority, not taken by brute force but carved by precision and pain. Only a warrior who knows how to kill without showing off wears white.
Ashen Hound Command Bodysuit
Origin: Forged from interlocking flexible necroplate and reinforced ceremonial rubber, this suit was designed for commanders who led from the front—and bled with their pack.
Description & Function: The high-gloss texture is not vanity—it’s alchemical oil infusion. That coating sheds blood, water, and certain poisons, making the bodysuit self-cleaning and immune to toxins that work through skin absorption. She could wade through a plague swamp and emerge without a rash.
It regulates temperature to allow for high-speed movement without fatigue—maintaining her optimal muscle tension during sprinting, jumping, or when bracing against impact. It offers full flexibility without sacrificing minor armor resistance; it won’t stop a spear, but it’ll stop a dagger glancing off her ribs or a glancing strike from a staff.
Embedded runes in the suit’s spine socket directly with her chi flows. When her inner fire burns hot, vents along her sides release harmless pinkish mist—an early warning sign that she’s preparing a larger spell or entering a Stillness phase.
Personality Sync: It’s a second skin—not a uniform. Worn only by those who knew they'd be alone, surrounded, and still chose the front line.
Obsidian Tabi Greaves with Bloodlace Binding
Origin: Custom-forged by smith-priests of the Nokhoi for her induction as Blood Fox Khan, these open-toe greaves blend tradition and advanced warcraft.
Description & Function: Despite their elegant shape, the shin guards are made from lacquered obsidian backed by whale tendon and lined with light bone mesh, allowing freedom of motion while providing dense structural defense. They are enchanted to neutralize traction issues—no slipping on ice, mud, or blood-soaked fields.
The red cords are symbolic and functional: dyed with beetle blood and her own, they bind spiritual energy into her limbs. While active, they act as pressure channels—expelling ambient energy to enhance the lift of a vertical jump or the twist of a kick.
She can leap 9–10 ft straight into the air or spin mid-kick with near-supernatural grace, even in cramped spaces.
Personality Sync: These are not decorations. They’re promises—each knot a vow she made to her fallen squad, each string a binding to her own wrath.
Crimson Rope Sash of the Bone Pact
Origin: Woven from the hair of her fallen unit and beetle gut thread, this sash was crafted during a blood rite following her appointment as general.
Description & Function: This isn’t armor, but a spiritual anchor. The sash stores residual soul energy from battles, allowing her to occasionally tap into a fragment of her fallen comrades’ focus. Once per battle, it pulses with warmth—momentarily slowing her perception of time, allowing her to see incoming strikes like a blur instead of an instant.
It also functions as an emergency tourniquet—if wounded severely, the rope tightens automatically to seal bleeding and redirect chi flow toward critical regions. She can remain conscious and active even with grievous injuries until the battle ends.
Personality Sync: She doesn't carry the dead for guilt. She carries them so they can keep fighting through her.
Tread of the Liquid Moon
(Enchanted Footwear – Mobility / Terrain Mastery / Surface Adaptation)
Origin: These sandals were crafted in secrecy by a reclusive Nokhoi monk-smith named Uljin the Whisperer—one of the last surviving Fleshcallers who once walked barefoot across lava rivers to commune with spirit-beetles in Hextor’s obsidian marshlands. The Blood Fox saved Uljin’s life during a hunt for a defiled bone wyrm. In gratitude, he gifted her these relics, weaving his own tendon into the binding straps.
Description & Craftsmanship: The open-toe design belies their complexity. The sole is a multi-layered weave of hardened swamp-wyrm hide, compressed shell fragments, and enchanted spore-fiber from cherry blossoms harvested on the cliffs of Obsidian Canyon.
Each tread is embedded with microchannels that siphon chi from Somber’s steps, distributing it in timed pulses to the base of her foot, allowing her to displace mass over surface tension at will. When running, her footstep skims the surface rather than sinks, letting her sprint across water like it were stone—or run up walls with the grip of a panther on bark.
Effects and Usage:
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Wall-Running: Chi anchors form beneath each step, allowing vertical locomotion for up to 20 ft without a launch point. With sufficient speed and angle, she can vault onto rooftops or scale sheer cliffs. She can even rebound mid-climb using residual petal light as a foothold.
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Water Skimming: The sandals momentarily harden the water under her stride, distributing her weight across a crystallized chi lattice only visible under moonlight or magical perception. She can dash across rivers, lakes, even bogs without slowing.
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Silence Tread: Each step muffles sound, making no more noise than a falling petal. She can sneak up behind foes during a storm without alerting them. Paired with her bodysuit, she becomes almost undetectable when not actively charging energy.
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Defensive Trait: The soles resist heat up to molten-glass levels, allowing her to sprint across burning terrain, acid pools, or cursed fire fields with no damage to her feet. She once ran across a battlefield soaked in dragon bile and emerged unscathed.
Appearance: Black as starless night, with red petal-lace threading up her calves in tight spirals. When she channels chi through them, faint pink script flares along the straps—Nokhoi runes that translate roughly to: “The Hunt Does Not Wait.”
Personality Sync: The world tries to slow you. Mud, ruin, ice, flame—it all wants you to stop. She refuses. These soles are her rebellion. Every surface yields to her purpose. Every step is a declaration: she will not be held back.
The Crimson Omen
(Eyepatch – Sensory Enhancement / Battlefield Perception / Vision Magic)
Origin: Once belonging to a fallen war-witch of the Ashen Hounds, this eyepatch was recovered from a sealed reliquary found deep in the fungal catacombs beneath Hextor. Legend says the war-witch, Tsagaan Shil (White Eye), plucked out her own eye to escape a god’s gaze—then bound her soul into the empty socket so she might see what others could not. Somber took this relic during her time with the Ashen Hounds, after besting one of their cursed specters in a ritual duel.
She doesn't wear it to hide a wound. She wears it because it watches when she doesn't.
Design & Construction: The eyepatch is not simple leather. It is a membrane of spectral eel hide, lacquered in ash-wax and braided with soul-hair from the seers of the drowned cliffs. It wraps around her head with firm tension, held in place not by knots, but by intention—it does not fall off unless willed to.
The center bears a crimson sigil: a stylized cherry blossom with one eye at its heart. When activated, the eye glows faintly beneath the surface, pulsing with internal light as if always blinking from behind the veil.
Functions & Abilities:
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Darkvision:
The wearer sees in total darkness as if it were soft twilight. Not in greyscale, but in nuanced spectral hues—heat, breath, aura, and recent movement leave afterimages in her field of view for up to 3 seconds. Her eye can pierce magical darkness, void shadows, and most necrotic fogs. -
Underwater Sight:
The patch adjusts visual friction to cut through murky water, silt, algae, and pressure distortion. Her vision remains crisp, tracking heat-trails and movement even in pitch-black, boiling depths. She once slew a giant bone-pike beneath a drowned temple using only this vision and her breath alone. -
Dustfield and Ash-Fog Perception:
The eyepatch senses particle density and wind rhythm, overlaying a glowing outline of all physical shapes within a 100 ft radius—even in sandstorms, volcanic ash, or magical blindness. She can fight in a collapsing ruin as if the air were still. -
Soul-Glint:
Once per battle, the eyepatch opens its own eye—an ethereal lens that glows red and gazes beyond the flesh. It reveals hidden foes, magical constructs, invisible spirits, and concealed sigils. The effect lasts only 5 seconds, but in her hands, that’s enough to change the shape of the conflict.
Passive Traits:
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Resistant to illusions and glamours.
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Weak mind-probing spells (clairvoyance, mind-reading) will trigger a psychic backlash when they try to reach her.
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The patch whispers low warnings in ancient Nokhoi dialect when she’s being watched.
Appearance: Worn over her right eye, the eyepatch contrasts her vibrant, windswept cherry hair. The red sigil shifts faintly depending on light and mood—sometimes appearing fresh, sometimes like dried blood. It's more than cloth—it’s an omen. A mark. A relic bound to her refusal to be blind to danger again.
Personality Sync: Somber doesn’t fear what lurks in the dark, because the dark fears her. Where others stumble, she walks with grace. The Crimson Omen isn’t a crutch—it’s a covenant with truth: “If death is watching, I will watch it back.”
Gauntlets of the Pale Climber
(Hand Relic – Mobility / Surface Adherence / Controlled Descent)
Origin: Forged in the mountain forges of Obsidian Canyon by a Nokhoi relicsmith named Baatarkhuu the Knuckle-Singer, these gauntlets were custom-bloomed for Somber during her rise through the Ashen Hounds. Baatarkhuu, moved by her refusal to let gravity, exhaustion, or fear slow her, embedded both songmetal and ghost-lichen into the weave. The name “Pale Climber” refers not to her skin, but to her silent ascents through fog-choked cliffs under moonlight, where even mountain goats would falter.
Design & Construction: Fashioned from blackened kherlen-steel and wrapped in obsidian-threaded hide, the gauntlets are lightweight yet deceptively dense. They cover from wrist to mid-forearm, with five clawed fingertip nodes that shimmer faintly with residual chi. The interior is lined with crimson ash-velvet that drinks sweat and dampens impact strain.
Runes of magnetic blood—a Nokhoi forging secret—are etched inside the palms. When activated, they vibrate subtly, like an insect’s wings trembling before flight.
Functions & Abilities:
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Wall Grip & Ceiling Traverse:
With a thought, the gauntlets shift their internal polarity and palm tension, allowing Somber to scale vertical surfaces or hang from ceilings with feline grace. She may leap between walls, cling to inverted stone, or cling mid-combat on tree bark, bone-architecture, or raw cliff. Her grip remains firm even under heavy rainfall, frost, or magical wind.-
Surfaces: Stone, wood, bone, glass, obsidian, metal (non-slick).
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Up to 3 minutes of continuous activation per climb, cooldown 30 seconds.
-
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Silent Climb Mode:
The claws retract slightly and soften with chi-dampeners, letting her climb soundlessly like a whisper between tiles. Perfect for infiltration, ambush, or ambidextrous assassination work. -
Slowfall Glyph (2x per day):
Embedded into the back of each gauntlet is a dormant chi-glyph that can be activated with a hand signal and breath intake. When triggered, it bathes her in a faint halo of cherry-hued airlight, drastically reducing her terminal velocity.-
Effect: Allows her to fall from heights up to 600 feet without injury.
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Descent becomes a drifting float akin to a sakura petal caught in a breeze.
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She retains some directional control mid-air and can land sword-first if desired.
-
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Tether Recall (Limited):
With sufficient focus, she may bind her chi to an anchored point she previously touched. A flick of her fingers and a pulse of black flame will jerk her body toward that spot, like a magnetic leash being reeled in.
(Range: 30 feet max. Cooldown: 1 minute.)
Passive Traits:
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Dampens impact force when catching a fall or swinging from heights.
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Amplifies grip strength to 3x her already inhuman baseline during activation.
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Flame-resistant and immune to abrasion.
Appearance: Black and crimson, matte-finished with faint silver threading visible only in torchlight. The fingers end in sleek hooks that shimmer like obsidian beetle pincers. On the knuckles are stylized runes of the Nokhoi script, one for each virtue: “Tenacity,” “Silence,” “Flow,” and “Weightlessness.”
Personality Sync: Somber doesn't believe in obstacles—only shortcuts through the vertical. These gauntlets are not armor. They are wings shaped for stone. Where others fall, she ascends. Where others fear the fall, she dances down.
Somber's Magic System
A whirlwind of petals and ash—elegance married to agony, fire veiled in light.
MAGICAL FOUNDATION: THE DUALITY OF HER ART
Cherry Blossom Light
“Pretty? Yes. Harmless? Tell that to the man missing a lung.”
The cherry blossoms in Somber’s arsenal are not dainty pink petals. They are superheated, condensed particles of radiant light—shaped into blossoms through sheer spiritual finesse and her innate control over chi. This light doesn't simply burn. It slices on a molecular level, burning inward from the point of contact, causing internal searing and cauterizing as it travels.
-
Weaknesses:
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Steel and denser metals: Light refracts harmlessly off highly reflective surfaces or disrupts when interacting with materials designed to scatter heat or bend energy.
-
Dense shadows or magical barriers: While cherry light dissolves mundane darkness like flipping on a switch in a broom closet, truly empowered magical shadows (not just "spooky vibes") may deflect or resist it with enough energy behind them.
-
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Interaction with Shadows:
Light shifts shadow. Shadows bend and melt. If your magic relies on "darkness" as an undefined blanket term, expect her to roast through it unless it's reinforced by something more than flavor text. Additionally, all attacks listed can be swapped between Cherry Blossom Light and Black Flame. The only ones that can do both are those explicitly mentioned in the abilities description.
Black Flame
“It’s just fire. Really pissed-off fire.”
The black flames are not eldritch or void-touched. They are standard combustion imbued with her chi, darkened not through infernal power, but symbolism—the color reflecting her inner turmoil, grief, and raw emotional bleed.
-
Function:
These flames ignite outward, causing second-degree burns on contact and leaving behind smoldering embers that linger in place for 2 turns. Standing in them invites slow, steady damage. -
Weaknesses:
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Water, wind, or suffocation of oxygen can put them out.
-
Somber is immune to the heat, but not immune to kinetic shockwaves or explosions caused by her own flames.
-
Cannon Arm Functionality
Her cannon connects to her right arm—a grotesque but effective augmentation powered by chi. It allows her to fire off specialized skills before requiring a reload.
-
Reload Mechanism:
Must spend 1 turn reloading by inserting a magical crystal into the oscillating chamber. She carries two such crystals within her hammerspace (affectionately stored in her cleavage because of practicality).
MAGICAL TECHNIQUES
Force Palm – (Crowd Control / Utility / Pressure Manipulation)
With a snap of her free hand, Somber manipulates the pressure around her like a puppeteer teasing a thunderhead. She compresses the air into a conical blast (50 ft long, 25 ft wide), violently discharging it in a forward eruption of invisible force.
The result is devastating: bones shatter, enemies are flung backwards like leaves caught in a typhoon, and environmental hazards—gas, fog, flame, or steam—are torn apart and scattered. This technique isn't just about damage; it's about battlefield control, clearing space and asserting dominance with the raw pressure of her will.
Hellclutch – (Mobility / Utility / Burn / Gravitic Pull)
Using her unarmed hand, Somber summons a spectral talon wreathed in pink chi and chained to her soul by threads of black flame. It launches up to 40 feet, gripping surfaces, enemies, or objects with predatory strength. Depending on positioning and leverage, she either pulls herself toward the target or yanks the target toward her.
But she can do more. With a flick of her fingers and a breath of concentration, she superheats the air between her and the target; collapsing it in a microburst of pressure. The result is a brutal implosion that drags enemies inward, as if the world itself were drawing them closer.
Against the frail or unlucky, this implosion doesn't just pull—it crushes. Bones snap—armor caves. Flesh folds like parchment under the thumb of a god.
Chi can also be funneled through the talon’s chain during contact, inflicting searing, ghostly flame damage while latched.
A Thousand Petal Storm (Offensive Burst)
Channels both cherry light and black flame into her katana or fist, launching V-shaped projectiles of combined elemental fury. These arcs are 4 ft thick, 20 ft long, and travel with blistering speed up to 120 ft, slicing and burning organic tissue.
Does not explode. It just hurts—like getting hit by an elegant guillotine made of magma.
Sakura Slide (Burst Speed / Mobility Tool)
Somber amplifies her speed by 2x while in Stillness by using her life force directly. This makes her blur past opponents or sidestep 30 ft mid-air, leaving behind a burning trail of cherry blossom petals.
Using this more than 3 times per battle will cause ligament tear, tendon failure, and potential spontaneous regret.
Petal Blade (Blade Buff / Reflective Defense)
She surrounds her katana with a vortex of petal-light embers, capable of slicing through cloth, leather, flesh, and basic metals.
-
Defensive Traits:
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Can disintegrate incoming physical projectiles (e.g., arrows, throwing knives)
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Reflects magical beams under 4 inches in diameter
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Dispels weak magic attacks (e.g., fireballs smaller than a melon)
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Buff applies to both sides of her blade.
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Extension (Reach Modifier / Lethal Precision)
By pouring chi into Petal Blade, Somber extends the blade's reach up to 10 feet, transforming her melee into a precise, glowing whip of death. This hyper-concentrated magic lasts 2 turns and can slice through plated armor—if you’re still in range after seeing the wind ripple.
Gout of Blossoms (Line AoE / Radiant Burn)
Fires a cone of concentrated cherry blossom light from her fingers. The attack reaches 60 ft, widening to 20 ft at its base. Designed to burn from the inside-out, it is a tool of annihilation rather than displacement.
Blockable by magical shields or reinforced steel. Weak illusions and shadow magic will fizzle like bad dreams in morning light.
Petalstorm Waltz (Offensive Burst – AoE)
Somber performs a pirouette with her blade, releasing a spiraling corona of razor-edged cherry blossom petals. Each petal is a shard of hardened light; superheated and honed to a monomolecular edge. The storm expands in a 30 ft radius around her, shredding exposed flesh.
Petals burn from the inside out, cutting with surgical violence and leaving glowing embers embedded in wounds. The swirl persists for 1.5 seconds before vanishing like dying sparks.
Bloom of the Final Dawn (Ultimate Technique – Cone Burst)
Somber channels all her inner flame—cherry light and blood-forged chi—into the ground or a target, detonating a radiant bloom in a 50 ft conical fan. Hundreds of spectral petals burst forth in a slow-motion explosion, each one phased to bypass surface armor before igniting from within.
Targets caught in the cone suffer radiant combustion at the cellular level. The aftermath resembles a field of wilted flowers... and charred corpses standing mid-scream.
Falling Petals, Rising Blood (Reactive Counter – Parry Burst)
Upon executing a perfect parry, Somber releases a retaliatory cascade of petals from the edge of her katana. These do not merely rebound the attack—they erupt outward in a flash of pressure and heat, cutting at the wrist, neck, and eyes.
Range is close (5ft), but the petals strike with punishing speed. Fast enough to sever tendons, burn skin, and disorient opponents for a follow-up slash.
Crimson Cascade (Mobility + Offensive Trail)
Somber dashes forward in a streak of pink flame, covering up to 20 ft in a blink. As she moves, a trail of unstable cherry light petals erupts behind her. These linger for 2 seconds before detonating in sharp bursts.
Each petal explodes with 1–2 ft of burning glass shrapnel. Pursuers or flanking foes are torn apart in her wake. She doesn't need to look back—the path is already razed.
Shatterstep (Mobility – Anti-Surround)
Somber stomps her foot, releasing a ring of cherry-lit cracks beneath her. In 360° around her, the ground fractures in luminous lines, exploding in dozens of jagged glass petals that fire upward like caltrops.
Petals Under Tongue (Assassin Technique – Close Execution)
A whisper of a kiss, a brush of fingers; then the throat opens like a blossom. Somber channels her chi into her fingers, inserting a tiny petal of hardened light into the enemy’s skin or mouth during close contact. It lies dormant until she snaps her fingers; at which point the blossom expands violently.
Effect: Single-target internal rupture. The trigger delay allows dramatic timing or mid-conversation execution.
She follows the explosion with a sudden reverse dash (up to 20 ft), repositioning as enemies stagger.
Effect: Crowd control, disengage, and terrain disruption.
Pale Bloom Reversal (Defensive Counter – Guarded Entry)
Somber crosses her forearms in an “X” to absorb an oncoming strike with hardened cherry flame layered over her skin. Upon contact, the petals crack—but with the recoil, she redirects the force into a spinning low-kick or backhand.
Each movement sheds a trail of petals that form a spiraling barrier behind her, making flanks hazardous.
Effect: High defense, quick reposition, petal trail punishes pursuers.
Vow of Falling Spring (Ultimate Channel – Wide-Area Finale)
Somber plants her blade into the ground, kneels, and draws a breath. The battlefield stills. A dome of cherry light blooms outward in silence for 100 ft around her, and from above, blossoms begin to fall—slow, beautiful, haunting. Each petal is a blade. A scythe. A judgment.
Enemies caught in the radius suffer continuous cutting and combustion over 5 seconds as petals rain like a divine execution.
Effect: High-cost, high-damage AOE. Used as a finishing technique or battlefield control miracle.
Crimson Pulse: Bone Orchid (Disarming Technique – Nerve Shred)
A single open-palmed strike to the chest or spine unleashes a cone of microscopic cherry shards through the opponent’s skin. They target nerves and tendons, disrupting motor function without outright killing.
Effect: High disarm chance. Temporary paralysis or muscle failure for 6–8 seconds. Used for incapacitation or live capture.
Black Bloom Spiral (AoE Disruption – Tornado Cut)
Somber spins with katana extended, her black flame and cherry light fusing into a double helix around her body. As she pivots, the petals spiral outward in a rising cyclone 25 ft high and 15 ft wide, shredding flesh and hurling enemies outward.
Effect: Medium-cost AoE. Enemies within range suffer disorientation and deep cuts. Can clear clustered foes or open a path through a mob.
Petal Monsoon (Ultimate AoE Tornado)
Somber’s signature large-scale devastation. She slashes her katana horizontally, generating a tornado of black fire and cherry blossom particles that charges forward 120 ft, with a 40 ft width.
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Inside the storm:
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Victims suffer both radiant and fire damage
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Exposed flesh and light armor are shredded
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Light transforms into “hard-light” blades—razor-thin petals slicing anything they touch
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“No, it doesn’t suck people in. It doesn’t need to. It comes to you.”
Closing Notes on Magic
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Explosives? She’s not immune. Her flame won't hurt her, but shrapnel and blasts still leave a mark.
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Scaling Concerns? Somber’s been active since 2002. If your OC is fresh off the isekai wagon, don’t be surprised if the Blood Fox hands you your ribs in a cherry-scented envelope.
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Style? Every attack is a flourish, a memory in motion. She is not a brawler—she is a blade in a blizzard, a fox in flames, a legacy written in ash and petals.
The Furnace Beneath Her Scars: Matsumota’s Arcane Metabolism
In Hextor, where magic is metabolized through pain and persistence, Matsumota Devante-Weyshla Ardese, the Blood Fox of Obsidian Canyon, is not a caster in the traditional sense—she is a combustion engine in the shape of a warrior. Her spells are not recited. They’re ignited. Not inked on parchment, but scarred into sinew.
Magic in her hands is not graceful. It is precise, brutal, and metabolically weaponized.
The Blessed Furnace — The Tlāzōtlalpan
At the core of every spellcaster in Hextor lies the Tlāzōtlalpan—a latent, metaphysical organ nestled behind the sternum. Known as “The Blessed Furnace” in the Tlacuatl tongue, it is not visible under mundane surgery. But in necromantic dissection, it reveals itself: a translucent flower of sinew and soul-thread, spiraling with luminous veins and knotted with ancestral memory.
This organ has two chambers:
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Huehca-Ichpoca (Chalice of Blood): Absorbs metabolic energy—kcal from food, oxygen, and bio-kinetic motion.
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Yolquemitl (Soul-Root): Interfaces with stored essence, particularly from Vitae Crystals.
Both spiral around a hollow center where spell-intent is shaped, honed, and expelled as raw arcane action.
For Matsumota, the Tlāzōtlalpan has been ritually scarified, trained, and hardened through years of Nokhoi rites and warfare. Hers operates with elite precision, funneling massive power at lethal efficiency.
Her Arcane Threshold and Efficiency
While the average spellcaster in Hextor risks collapse after 30,000 kcal of expenditure, Matsumota’s conditioning allows her to sustain up to 50,000 kcal of total metabolic casting in combat. This expanded ceiling is the result of:
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Peak physical training
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Kitsune physiology
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Spiritual attunement to her chi and ancestral lineage
Most notably, her spells are cast at 50% efficiency, meaning she pays half the normal kcal cost when drawing energy from her own body. This grants her overwhelming endurance in magical engagements—a warcaster who does not ration, but spends.
Flat kcal Costs by Spell Type
Her spells, while varied in form and function, follow a streamlined metabolic expenditure model:
Touch Spells
500 kcal
Lines / Cones
1,500 kcal
Buffs
1,000 kcal per turn
Area of Effect (AoE)
2,500 kcal
Movement Skills
1,2500 kcal
Terrain / Crowd Control
1,250 kcal
Beams (Cannon Strikes)
3,000 kcal
Ultimates: Any spell type used as an ultimate—intended to overwhelm, finish, or annihilate—costs 2× its base kcal, even for Matsumota. That means a beam ultimate costs 6,000 kcal
This system allows her to mix and layer spell effects across a battlefield while maintaining surgical control over her resource consumption.
Application in Combat
Matsumota casts with motion and muscle, not chants or staffs.
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A flick of her fingers ignites Cherry Blossom Light along her blade—a touch spell, 500 kcal.
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A wide arc of her prosthetic cannon erupts in a searing cone—1,000 kcal.
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A midair vault with flaming petals spinning beneath her—movement skill, 1,000 kcal.
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When she launches her full-bodied cannon beam—burning straight through a troll’s chest—it costs 3,000 kcal, the most devastating single-target magic in her arsenal.
Her ultimate attacks—like her infamous Petalstorm Cascade or Blossom Lance Overdrive—push these values further, draining entire reserves in one devastating burst.
Sustainability and Collapse Thresholds
Matsumota can metabolically afford up to 50,000 kcal per engagement. When she crosses that threshold, symptoms of Arcane Emaciation begin:
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Soul-twitches
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Muscle fraying
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Hallucinations of memory ghosts
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“Vein crack” phenomena—where chi bleeds through her skin in visible lines
To prevent full collapse, she must:
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Maintain at least 7,500 kcal; if she dips below, -33% movement speed and strength.
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Replenish with food.
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Death if it kcal hits 0
Philosophy of Use
“Most mages chant about meaning. I burn through it. You want poetry? I’ll show you how a lung collapses from the inside out.”
Matsumota does not care for elegance. She casts as she fights: fast, cruel, decisive. Every spell is a maneuver, every burst a message—you are not faster, stronger, or madder than me.
She does not ask herself if she should cast. Only how much of herself she’s willing to spend to win.
My strength wasn’t handed to me.
It wasn’t some gift from the gods or a birthright from a noble womb. I wasn't kissed by destiny, blessed by spirits, or wrapped in sacred cloth. It was earned—ripped from the mouths of monsters, carved from the marrow of broken bones, and tempered in blood. My blood. My comrades' blood. The kind of blood that doesn't get scrubbed out of stone no matter how hard the highborn try.
I didn't ask for war. I just got good at surviving it.
And once you're good at something—really good—the world won't let you stop. They dress it up in banners and orders, in oaths and ceremonies, but beneath it all? You're just another sword to throw into the storm.
And I went. Again and again. For people I thought gave a damn. For thrones I thought meant something. For honor. For duty. For promises I bled myself dry to keep.
I lost my arm during the siege of Smoke Reef. I remember the sound—the wet snap of flesh and metal tearing apart like cloth. My leg? Crushed under a collapsing tower on the final night of the Red Purge. My eye? Torn out by a war-priest during the collapse of the Obsidian Wall—the same wall I was told would never fall under my command.
And yet, when the dust cleared, when the screaming stopped and the last horn faded into that cruel, endless silence… there was no procession. No mourning.
Just... nothing.
Not one king visited my ward. Not one noble sent flowers or coin. Not a single fucking cleric lit a candle. The people I fought for walked past me like I was a stray animal—no longer pretty, no longer useful, no longer theirs.
I gave them everything.
My limbs. My youth. My family. My name.
And they buried my command in a mass grave and moved on.
That’s the truth of war.
You aren’t a hero. You’re a tool. And once you break, they throw you away.
Do you know what it’s like to stand alone in a battlefield where every corpse has a name you knew? Every bloodied face, every contorted hand—someone you laughed with, drank with, trained beside. And you walk through them, breath ragged, ribs cracked, still somehow alive—and you ask the air, “What did it all mean?”
No answer. Just rot. Just silence. Just wind moving through the dead.
They don’t write songs about those moments. They write songs about victory.
But I remember. I remember all of them. Every soldier that died beside me. Every scream. Every oath. I carry their names in my limbs—what’s left of them—and on my face.
You think this war paint is decorative?
No. It’s ashes.
Their ashes. Mixed with my blood and oil. I paint myself in them every morning. Because someone has to remember.
And I’m tired of remembering alone.
I’ve fought in more wars than I can count—most of them not even worth a footnote in history. Wars for stolen land. For petty vengeance. For the pride of lords too soft to lift a sword. Wars waged for people who would call us savages the moment the battle was won.
They wrote their names in the books.
We wrote ours in the dirt.
And when the rain came… only one remained.
But no more.
I won’t serve thrones that don’t bleed with me. I won’t kneel to crowns that shatter like glass when you press them too hard. I won’t die for rulers who don’t know what a battlefield smells like.
I don’t care for their peace treaties. I don’t believe in their sacred compacts. Peace is a sales pitch to the naive, bought with corpses and broken on a whim. I’ve smoked better kingdoms than the ones they build now.
What I want—what I need—is something real. Something earned.
So I will build it myself.
I will make a nation of scars.
Not polished halls, but memorial walls that stretch for miles—each name carved deep enough to bleed. A place where the fallen are not forgotten. Where the broken are not discarded. Where being a soldier means more than being a blade for hire. It means being seen. Honored. Remembered.
Every child will know the names of the ones who died so they could walk safely to school. Every feast will begin with a toast to those who paid the price of peace. Every banner will fly not for a king, but for a regiment. For a comrade. For the line.
I’ll burn a thousand kingdoms to make it real.
I’ll cleave through a god if I have to.
Because no one else will do it.
Not the kings. Not the queens. Not the merchants.
They’ll just light another war and feed another generation into the furnace.
But me?
I remember.
I always fucking remember.
And when the next war comes—and it will—I’ll be there. One-eyed. Laughing. Pipe clenched in my teeth. Ash on my brow. Cannon humming with pink fire.
Not because I believe in glory.
Not because I want to win.
But because they still deserve better.
And someone has to make the world remember what it cost to build its gilded throne.
I don’t want statues.
Not of me. Not of them. They chip. They fall. And eventually, some lord will commission a new one to stand where the last crumbled, ignorant of whose face once stood in stone.
I don’t need medals. I’ve seen soldiers with fifteen of them buried in shallow graves with no name. I've watched generals pin honors on corpses while forgetting the names they belonged to.
I don’t need songs.
Because songs lie.
They sand down the edges, make war sound like triumph instead of trauma.
Give me silence—and memory. Give me dirt packed tight over a name carved into obsidian. Give me a child who grows up knowing why their mother never came home. Give me truth, no matter how ugly.
That is what I fight for now. That is what I build with each step I take.
Not a kingdom.
A testament.
Let there be no throne in my land. Only a great table.
Let no man sit higher than the one beside him.
Let no decision be made without the stories of the dead being read aloud first.
Before any law is passed, any war begun, any border drawn—let the names be spoken. All of them. One by one.
Let every senator, every commander, every merchant weep before they raise their hand.
You want to pass judgment?
Then you sit in the Hall of Silence.
You listen to what war costs.
You feel it.
You read the letters never delivered. You hold the rusted dog tags. You touch the remnants of those who stood before you could walk freely. And if, after all that, you still wish to call yourself a leader—then maybe… maybe, you deserve to be heard.
When I train soldiers now, I don’t teach them how to fight. That part’s easy.
I teach them how to remember.
Because muscle fades. Blades dull. Even legends pass. But memory? Memory is fire. It burns through apathy. It keeps the soul warm when the world turns cold.
They learn the names. The tactics, yes—but also the failures. The missteps. The forgotten. I make them carry that weight. Not as a burden—but as an honor.
We honor the burden.
We bless the weight.
That is our rite.
And if they fall, we do not say “They died for honor.”
We say: “They died, and they mattered. Their name will not vanish.”
I will not allow their deaths to become currency for speeches. They will not be another stanza in a warlord's song. They will not become background for another empire’s theater.
They will be sacred.
The old world doesn't deserve the blood we gave it.
That’s the bitterest truth I know. That we gave everything for something that didn’t even blink when we were gone.
But the world I build? The one I dream of?
It will be ugly. Cracked. Scorched.
But honest.
No lies of glory. No myth of just war.
Only the faces of the fallen.
Only the rituals of memory.
Only the knowledge that every name spoken in our walls meant something real.
I am no queen.
I am no hero.
I am what is left when the songs end and the trumpets fade.
I am the ash you tried to sweep away.
I am the silence you were too afraid to face.
But I remember.
And because I remember…
You will, too.
I’ve mourned long enough.
I’ve wept into sake. I’ve painted my face with ash. I’ve whispered names into the dirt where no gods listened. But grief, like blood, eventually clots—and now, all that’s left is a wound that burns.
So now I speak not to the dead.
I speak to the living.
To the nobles in their towers, who write the laws with ink but never lift the blade.
To the merchants in their ledgers, who tally profit margins lined with limb-stumps and widowhood.
To the priests and senators, who whisper prayers over coffins, then raise taxes on the orphaned.
To the civilians, who cheer when we march, sigh when we limp home, and forget us when we stop waving flags.
You have grown fat on the marrow of patriots.
You wear silk dyed in soldier’s blood and call it virtue.
You build your cities on ribcages and call it progress.
You sing anthems penned in ignorance and call it pride.
You look at the broken and call them “heroes” while stepping over their bowls.
You send them to war, and then ask them to apologize for coming back damaged.
You tell stories of sacrifice while letting the sacrificed rot alone in alleyways.
I have seen the banquet you feast upon.
The roast seasoned with loyalty.
The wine fermented from silence.
The laughter echoing above a graveyard you never had to visit.
And now you want to praise peace?
You don’t want peace. You want distance.
You want someone else to pay the cost.
You want war to be a show you watch from the balcony.
But war is not theater. It is truth.
And the truth is this: You do not care until the fire reaches your gates.
So let it.
I have carried the weight for long enough. My back breaks beneath your convenience.
You want soldiers to be loyal?
Then you be honest.
You want us to kill for you?
Then bury our dead yourself.
You want peace?
Then bleed for it the way we did.
Or don’t.
And I will come for you.
Not for vengeance. No.
For justice.
For the thousands who were promised they’d be remembered—and were not.
For every mother who raised a hero, only to receive a folded cloth and a tax notice.
For every forgotten name scrawled in the mud beneath your shining marble courts.
I will not kill to conquer.
I will kill to correct.
The Nation of Scars will rise not from treaties, but from reckoning.
Its foundation will not be signed in pen—but inscribed in fire.
We will teach the world what it has forgotten: that freedom has a price, and it is paid in names, not numbers.
Let the lords tremble.
Let the civilians watch in fear as the blade turns toward them for once—not to protect, but to question.
Let the temples ring hollow, the palaces feel drafty, the coin lose its shine.
Because I’m still here.
And I’m done waiting for the world to grow a conscience.
If remembrance is too heavy for you to carry—
Then I will carve it into your doors.
I will shout it through your halls.
I will bury it beneath your feast tables so deep that the next generation chokes on it when they dig too greedily.
This is not war.
This is accounting.
And every life you forgot...
is a name I remember.
