Marc Durand [Awaiting Review]

Basic Information
Name: Marc Durand
--Nickname: There are many nicknames that the Parisians graced him with, but few that he even likes to hear, much less write down.
---Special Title: Magician
----Level: 1
Gender: Male
Age: 17
Weight: 165 lb.
Height: 5'11"

Loyalty: The Black Order
Birth-date: 6/16
Place of Birth: Paris, France
Place of Living: The Black Order Asian Branch

Personality:
Marc is a kind soul, often going out of his way to help both comrades and perfect strangers. He can often be seen with a smile on his face, always looking towards his future- because it is the farthest away from his past. Marc is exceedingly honest, always telling the truth about anything when prompted. Often this leads to tense situations when the recipient didn't quite want the truth, but this overwhelming honesty is often Marc's most endearing trait: people know that, once won over, he is theirs to the end, and that his word can be literally taken to the bank. He is quite willing to intercept an enemy's attack for a friend, no matter the results of what such an action may be.

Despite this vibrant personality, there is an absolutely shocking side of Marc's personality that has to be seen to be believed. Whenever dealing with Soul Brokers, or other dregs of society that side with the Earl, or prey on their fellow humans, Marc is fully ready to unleash his unholy vengeance upon the unfortunate vermin, calling them the "worst sort of people" and "unfit to continue living." Often they will get away alive, as Damien believes them to be "not worth the time it takes to snuff them out," but there are exceptions to this. Those who prey on children or sadistically inflict pain on others for the sheer joy of it shall not escape to embrace of death. Whenever forced to walk the streets of Paris again, this moody, vengeful side side is far more easily roused.

Appearance:
Marc stands at 5'11 and weighs in at 165 pounds. His shaggy, raven-black hair stretches well past his ears, stopping only when it reaches his chin. His brown eyes are flecked  with shards of gold and are full of kindness. While his face may belie a happy history, his body rather violently disagrees. His arms, from the back his his hands all the way up to the shoulder, are covered in tattoo's of unearthly runes and sigils, the marks of a sorcerer. There are several burn scars on his legs and back, and a blood-red pentagram has been etched into his back by some sort of blade, impossible to miss and unmarred by any other wounds. This is rather remarkable, considering that the pentagram is two palms is size and the rest of his back is covered in scars from a whip. All along his stomach there are faded, perfectly circular scars, each around one cm in diameter. Some of these are hard to see, however, thanks to the faded but still present ragged scars that crisscross his abdomen, obviously earned from some sort of serrated knife. Mercifully the torturers left his face and arms untouched, fearful of his magic vengeance. As if that would spare them.

Normally, Marc walks around in jet black combat boots, requisitioned from the Black Order armory. Because of Marc's somewhat cowardly battle strategy (he prefers to back up and blast his enemy with fire, rather than "stand and take it like a man," a concept he finds laughable), he prefers comfortable, brown cloth pants, comfortable and easy to move around in. Often Marc cam be found wearing a ruffled white shirt, covered with a black vest, as is the style in France. Whenever prowling the country of France, especially the streets of Paris, or whenever he wants to strike fear into the people's hearts, he will wear the frayed cloak and ragged wizard's hat the Parisians mocked him with at his execution. No matter how often or how well the cloak is washed, a faded red pentagram that perfectly matches up with the one on Marc's back is plainly visible, revealing to all Marc's true nature. with Finally, Marc can never bear to be separated from his staff.

Statistics
Strength: Below Average
Speed: Below Average
Stamina: Average
Innocence/Chi Synch: Excellent
Intelligence: Average

Weapon Information
Weapon Type: Staff
Weapon Appearance: Marc's staff is approximately five feet of gnarled oak, inlaid with runes to help focus and direct Marc's magic. At the very top of the staff, the wood curves, tenderly caressing a translucent indigo crystal, nestled within the weave of the wood. It almost appears as if the staff was coaxed into growing around the stone. Finally, each of the elements is represented on the staff, as a focus to turn Marc's mana into elemental magic. Bands of iron bind the staff to represent metal, while sections of the staff are burned and charred, to represent fire. Cut from a soaked branch, water is present throughout the creation, as is the wood that binds it all together. The crystal crowning the weapon represents the earth it came from, as the sigils of power carved into the wood gives face to the lightning, that awe-inspiring artillery Of the heavens. When swung, the air whistling through the runes and knots of the wood sings, thus completing the physical elements that embody the world. 
Weapon Abilities: Using his staff, Marc is able to control the physical elements of fire, water, air, earth, lightning, metal, and wood. The staff takes what he calls 'mana,' the power source of his magic, and embodies it with one of the seven elements. Without his staff, all Marc is able to do is discharge blasts of pure mana in a general direction, as well as innate abilities such as his Shadowman spell. The staff must be in his hands or in the thrall of his mana in order to use magic. Fortunately, the staff is attuned to his mana, and thus will fly to Marc when called with mana, though this may take some time.

Abilities Information
Skills Class: Sorcery
Abilities:
ShadowmanA skill unique to Marc Durand, his shadow can be considered alive. While unable to speak, his shadow is able to act on its own, change forms, and interact with the real world by manipulating object's shadows. For example, he could push in a chair by pushing its shadowy counterpart. While Marc's shadow is able to withstand normal light, such as the sun, it disappears whenever a bright light is shined directly upon it. Thus, Marc is unable to use Shadowman when bathed in light- or absolute darkness, for a shadow cannot exist without some light.

Background and Roleplay Information

History:
Marc was born just before the overtures of the French Revolution, when France began to fear witchcraft just as much as England and Spain before them. His family was always ignored by the city, only dealt with when his father went to sell his unmatched jewelry, but they were happy. His father never quite explained to the Durand brothers what exactly those tattoo's that ran up and down his arms meant, but in truth, they didn't really care. Unfortunately, their mother had died in the twin's childbirth, but they still had each other. They had bread to eat and water to drink, and that was all they really needed.

On the eve of Marc's and René's 14th birthdays, just after he had crafted Marc's beloved staff, Marc's father was arrested under the pretense of witchcraft, and was beheaded without trial, under the infamous 'Reign of Terror.' A month went by, and soon Marc and his twin, René, were having to beg and steal to support themselves. The Millennium Earl revealed himself to Marc. Recognizing the man's promises were false, that no magic could truly bring back the dead, Marc refused. Unfortunately, his brother was not as logical as he. Marc happened upon René just as he made the contract, and watched in horror as what was once his father killed his flesh and blood, his own son, Marc's beloved brother. The Akuma heard his gasp, and turned to kill the remainder of his kin. Without thinking, Marc grabbed the first thing that came to hand, and to his luck it happened to be his staff. The world erupted into flame as the house, Akuma and all, burned down around him. Protected by his magic, Marc survived, but was quickly found by the citizens, who saw the flames off in the distance. He was accused of witchcraft and thrown into the dungeon. There, all sorts of atrocities were committed upon him: he was stabbed with a hooked, heated needle to find the mark of the devil (for it could not feel pain- Marc would beg to differ), repeatedly burned, boiled, beaten, whipped, slashed, drowned,  and otherwise mutilated in order to drive the demons out of him. Deciding that this wasn't enough, they decided to leave him to God's judgement. At his execution, Marc finally grew into his magic, freeing himself and killing his tormentors. He fled for his life, running for sanctuary, and constantly denied it. Finally, he reached Asia, where people respect magic, and found a home in the Black Order, hunting down the creatures and the man that ruined his life.

Code of Approval:  I am a slave to the Order, despite the fact that I may or may not be a Noah. Or if my name is Noah. Or I know anyone named Noah. Or if said person named Noah was also a Noah himself. We have no relations. 

Roleplay Sample:
Marc slowly opened his eyes, willing his body to bring down the swelling from the other night's beating. He still could barely see. Groaning, he attempted to roll over, and eat the cockroach infested slop they called gruel. His fingers hand just recently healed after being broken; it was only thanks to the doctor in the cell next door that Marc would ever be able to hold a quill again. He palmed the bowl, shaking it to scare out the vermin, and quickly downed it, praying that none of it touched his tongue. Apparently God doesn't listen to the prayers of sorcerers, though, since it seemed he would be hard pressed to find a drop of soup? Slop? Marc didn't even know what to call it- that didn't caress his tongue. "Food and water, all in one vile taste." Marc thought. He had lost his voice long ago, his throat too swollen to make sound. Impossibility soon became habit. Today was supposed to be his last- at least they had the decency to tell him. Still, you would think that they would at least be able to spare a loaf of bread for a condemned child.

The door to his cell opened, and Marc curled against the wall in fear of what awaited him. There was that bastard Pierre, who took especial pleasure in torturing Marc. He could always be counted on to go that extra mile. "Wake up, my little hellspawn- it's time to meet your friend once again! You'll be burning in hell before you know it!" Pierre sang cheerfully. "It's time for the big show, you know- best be ready for your grand appearance, Mister Wizard!" Pierre was a large man, and Marc a stick from starvation, and so the former easily lifted the latter and slapped him in the iron cuffs on the wall. Pierre expertly cut open the rags that served as Marc's shirt, not once touching the skin. "I just wanted to make sure that everyone knew what you are, and that your friend Down Below would recognize you on sight! No need to thank me!" And with those words, Pierre dug the knife once more into Marc's back, carving the pentagram into his flesh, despite Marc's weak struggles. When the deed was finished, Pierre's hands stained with blood, he smiled. "There we go. Now, let's get you into your best finery!" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "A wizard should arrive in hell in all his splendor!"

And so the sadistic man clasped the cloak around Marc's neck, and secured the hat upon his head, using pins to keep the large clothing in place. The blood from the pentagram soon soaked through, staining the fabric with a sinister double to the wound on Marc's body. "Ooooohhh yes, very diabolical! I'm sure you'll fit right in downstairs, my little hellspawn!" Pierre unchained Marc, and slapped him on the back to get the boy moving. As a sheep to the slaughter, Marc was silent, his screams of pain long since robbed from him, robbing Pierre of a bit of fun. "Alright, you silent little freak, let's get going." Pierre snarled, venom in his every word.

The light blinded Marc as he stepped outside; it was the first time he had seen it in half a year. His hearing and touch worked pretty well though, and he could hear the hissing crowd and feel the rotten tomatoes as they exploded over his face. Finally, he got his sight back just in time to see his death: just before him, not five feet away, was the same guillotine that killed his father. The priest backed away, cursing the boy. For defiance's sake, Marc spat on the man. What could he do, damn Marc to hell? Too late for that. He was strapped in, and heard the creaking of rope as the blade slowly rose to the apex. "Don't worry, I blunted the blade, just for you! Maybe the extra pain will make God look more favorably upon you!" Marc finally found his voice, thanks to the rage burning within. "If there is a God who sides with people like you, then I'm fine with the Devil." Huffing, Pierre pushed over the executioner and grabbed the rope himself. Marc sighed, resigned and ready to face his death. He closed his eyes, and heard the wind shriek as the blade mercilessly cut the air in twain...

...and opened his eyes again at the gasp of the crowd and current possession of his head. The morning sun revealed a frightful picture: his shadow, which had somehow freed itself from its own bonds, was holding up the blade thanks to the very edge that Pierre had blunted himself. Suddenly, Marc wanted to live. The sigils on his arms glowed, and the stock that held Marc in place fell to splinters, destroyed by the sheer burst of mana. Looking at the stunned crowd, Marc knew he didn't have long to act. Spying his staff, which had been paraded around behind him as the 'evidence' of his guilt, Marc immediately knew what to do. "Caerwyn!" He named it. Names have power, and as he named his staff, it flew to him. Meanwhile, Marc's shadow tripped Pierre and held the man on the ground. Caerwyn glowed with power, and suddenly the hat and cloak didn't seem like a mockery anymore. "And all the king's horses, and all the king's men, couldn't put Pierre back together again." Marc sang, mimicking the song Pierre had sung as he danced on Marc's fingers, breaking them. Pierre screamed. Marc slammed the staff into Pierre's chest, and the remaining earth energy sent a ripple through the area, overturning many of the spectators. Pierre never stood a chance, flattened beyond recognition. Not even taking the time to think, Marc ran, adrenaline covering the pain in the boy who could barely stumble earlier. The townsmen, shouting their outrage, quickly caught up to Marc on the outskirts of town, but many wished they hadn't. Marc unleashed a firestorm that left the would be murderers charred corpses, victims of their own rage. Marc was left alone then, just managing to collapse outside the hideaway of a doctor, a friend of his father's and another man hiding from the Reign of Terror.

...A few months later...
Marc relaxed in the back of the wagon, a blade of grass between his teeth and a woman's legs under his head. He had finally gotten the chance to change cloths, and had wrapped up his suspicious looking staff in the cloak that he had worn to his execution. The Chinese merchant driving the wagon, heading back home after a very profitable trading route through Europe, attempted to strike up some conversation. "So, boy, did you hear about the wizard in Paris a few months ago? Turns out they caught a real one! Burned down half the city!" Marc smiled knowingly. "Pull the other one. There's no way the French could do anything right! They can't even stop killing themselves- where would they find time to kill a wizard?" The merchant laughed. "I suppose you're right! And coming from a Frenchman, too- what does that make you?" "Father, quit teasing him! Marc is our guest!" She exclaimed, cradling Marc's head in her lap. He looked up at her and grinned once more. Yeah. Life was definitely getting better.


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[ God Eater: The Spiral Fate, Lindow Amamiya, Marc Durand ]